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sorry poem

i shake my hair in the wind of morning
we break the glass whose sacred wine
like eagles on up high
stir
brother, i am fire
through the broad earth's aching breast
when freedom from her mountain height
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
evidenced in the glimmer in your eyes
at dawn, he said
melancholy days have come

 



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