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friend poem

why then, must we see?
within my hand i hold
i stand in the cold gray weather
into the silent land
the old songs
there is no escape by the river
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
with her hair flaying wildly
i saw the clouds among the hills
it was the autumn of the year
babylon-where i go dreaming
burly, dozing humble-bee
see, from this counterfeit of him
this ancient silver bowl of mine

 



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