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dark poetry

lo! 'tis a gala night
beneath the warrior's helm
as a naked man i go
grieve not for the invisible
among the mountains i wandered
over the river they beckon to me
days endeared to every muse
i make my shroud, but no one knows
over the rooftops race the shadows of clouds
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
sing again the song you sung
a little peach in the orchard grew

 



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