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slam poetry

i cannot always feel his greatness
this is the song of youth
why are the things that have no death
a bird sang
rocked in the cradle of the deep
they in the darkness gather and ask
the old west, the old time
with lips blood red and heart of stone
a sky that has never known sun, moon or stars
full of tears
i saw with open eyes
the meadow was creeping

 



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