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death poetry

storm
white foam flower, red flame flower
grieve not for the invisible
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
in may
the meadow was creeping
glooms of the live-oaks
out of me unworthy and unknown
the fragrance came
the air is full of dawn and spring
there is no flock, however watched and tended
she knows a cheap release

 



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