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fall poetry

up from the meadows rich with corn
master of human destinies am i
tripping up, falling down
of sun nor stars
this is the arsenal
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
night was black and drear
my soul is a dark ploughed field
they in the darkness gather and ask
he speaks not well
i shall see a star tonight
if the red slayer think he slays
a storm is riding on the tide

 



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