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funeral poem

a look is but a ray
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
she limps with halting painful pace
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
for truth, for love
desolate and lone
where shall i find you
old wine to drink
sweet and strong
sad are they who know not love
who will be naming the wind
made up of loveliness alone
the sun is up

 



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