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type of poetry

my soul is a dark ploughed field
the little white prayers
my son is dead and i am going blind
in your arms was still delight
roses and gold
soft as the bed in the earth
since, if you stood by my side today
three years ago today
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
see, they return
let us pity those who are better off than we are
the lightning flashed, and lifted
in all things not spoken of

 



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