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life poem

o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
beautiful, tragical faces
gaily through the fields we danced
often i think of the beautiful town
two rows of cabbages
i stand in the cold gray weather
before the solemn bronze saint
there's one that i once loved so much
a sky that has never known sun, moon or stars
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness
which i wish to remark
a bird sang
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
are you alive?

 



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