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sorry poem

how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
let me move slowly through the street
you are my companion
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
i had over-prepared the event
you are beautiful and faded
beneath the warrior's helm
when i was broke in london
he came and took me by the hand
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
up from the south at break of day
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
she must go back, she said

 



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