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narrative poetry

i went up and down the streets
last midnight
up to her chamber window
little gate was reached at last
how shall i help to right the world that is going wrong
often i think of the beautiful town
i make my shroud, but no one knows
have you heard
to be able to see every side of every question
beneath my window in a city street
do i like it
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
from our hidden places

 



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