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sad poetry

love has been sung a thousand ways
let me move slowly through the street
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb
perhaps it is no matter that you died
if the red slayer think he slays
one sweetly solemn thought
sleep, gray brother of death
over the river, on the hill
the dawn was apple-green
above them all, looking down
truely
but i cannot read you now
i gazed upon the glorious sky
i expect you

 



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