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friend poetry

beneath my window in a city street
old wine to drink
if i had known how narrow a prison is love
in september
looking beyond
the meadow was creeping
who will be naming the wind
thoughts through my head
within my hand i hold
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
if it
skies they were ashen and sober
before the solemn bronze saint
over the rooftops race the shadows of clouds

 



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