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death poem

a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
when night drifts along the streets of the city
it was many and many a year ago
once this soft turf
the fragrance came
from our hidden places
the air is like a butterfly
perhaps it is no matter that you died
i am singing to you
shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
who loves the rain
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon

 



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