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narrative poetry

how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
since i have felt the sense of death
night was black and drear
tripping up, falling down
you are clear
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
when a deed is done for freedom
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
with the sunset
he's gone
a mile behind
for truth, for love
under the harvest moon
gone before us

 



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