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suicide poetry

they may talk of love in a cottage
perhaps it is no matter that you died
skies they were ashen and sober
weak-winged is song
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
why so sad my lovely one?
the air is like a butterfly
master of human destinies am i
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
backward, turn backward
sweet and strong
i go my way complacently
soft as the bed in the earth

 



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