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romantic poetry

i walk down the garden paths
braided and woven
when i go back to earth
my son is dead and i am going blind
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
wrap the earth in cloudy weather
i do not pray for peace
i stand in the cold gray weather
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
but i cannot read you now
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
this ancient silver bowl of mine

 



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