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acrostic poem

i sometimes wonder if it's really true
the poets tell
high-born race
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
do not turn your head
and how could you dream of meeting
see i give myself to you
though i am little as all little things
a little peach in the orchard grew
but alas, just dreams
still her gray rocks tower above the sea
from floor to ceiling

 



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