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funeral poem

into the silent land
with the sunset
a flying word from here and there
in mournful numbers
i expect you
tell me not
all down the years
what was it the engines said
though i am little as all little things
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
give me
i am the wind that wavers
burly, dozing humble-bee
short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it

 



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