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prose poetry

beneath the warrior's helm
sadly speaking
shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
risen from the dead
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
look back with longing eyes and know that i will follow
there by the window in the old house
bring me soft song
i shall see a star tonight
the sky
gloom
lived by the river-side
tripping up, falling down

 



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