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poetry poem

a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
little park that i pass through
i saw the clouds among the hills
look back with longing eyes and know that i will follow
what do i owe to you
for then without
let me be sad
god
in mournful numbers
when sea-winds pierced our solitudes
he speaks not well
long ago, in the young moonlight
soft as the bed in the earth

 



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