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poem for pastors

sleep sweetly in your humble graves
a bird sang
which i wish to remark
splendid and terrible your love
i saw you hunched and shivering on the stones
old wine to drink
i have seen the proudest stars
happiness
if the red slayer think he slays
sleep, gray brother of death
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
sweet with fern and rose
what shall we do now
with her hair flaying wildly

 



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