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poem

the sky
the arches of the red bridge
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
in your arms was still delight
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
let me be sad
why do you always stand there shivering
and how could you dream of meeting
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
white foam flower, red flame flower

 



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