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poetry poem

in the cloud-gray mornings
the saddest of the year
there is no flock, however watched and tended
there is an hour of peaceful rest
why then, must we see?
darkest, strangest mystery
old wine to drink
my sorrow, when she's here with me
suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways
they threw a stone, you threw a stone
my soul is a dark ploughed field

 



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