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friend poetry

when the hours of day are numbered
over the river, on the hill
above them all, looking down
what shall we do now
could we but know
my soul is a dark ploughed field
you are beautiful and faded
lo! 'tis a gala night
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
within my hand i hold
in all things not spoken of
and so it goes
passing through huddled and ugly walls

 



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