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funeral poem

city that is not a city
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
i make my shroud, but no one knows
i have seen the proudest stars
one with you
babylon-where i go dreaming
in may
one sweetly solemn thought
tripping up, falling down
which keeps
if the red slayer think he slays

 



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