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concrete poetry

i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
i walk down the garden paths
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
i hold your heart
backward, turn backward
i have cast the world
musing, between the sunset and the dark
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
from song and dream for ever gone
before the solemn bronze saint
let us plant
she limps with halting painful pace
be not false

 



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