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best friend poem

i do not pray for peace
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
had he and i but met
the rain was over, and the brilliant air
let a joy keep you
rocked in the cradle of the deep
all day to watch the blue wave curl and break
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
eighty years have passed, and more
wheel me down by the meadow
though i am little as all little things
perhaps it is no matter that you died

 



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