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how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
like eagles on up high
when night drifts along the streets of the city
wheel me down by the meadow
gaily through the fields we danced
do not grieve that it is over
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
under the harvest moon
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
desolate and lone
in september
i made a vow once, one only
i am fevered
who is the runner in the skies

 



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