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gothic poetry

lo! 'tis a gala night
rocked in the cradle of the deep
sad are they who know not love
when night drifts along the streets of the city
the single clenched fist lifted and ready
in halls of sleep you wandered by
through the broad earth's aching breast
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
very well, you liberals
once this soft turf
i flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying
you are my companion
above them all, looking down

 



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