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broken heart poem

within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
little gate was reached at last
softly now the light of day
in the cloud-gray mornings
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
i love my hour of wind and light
up from the south at break of day
the fragrance came
have we no shame?
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
white foam flower, red flame flower

 



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