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why are the things that have no death
sleep, gray brother of death
do not turn your head
they may talk of love in a cottage
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
looking beyond
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
their beautiful hair
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
made up of loveliness alone
i stood
birds against the april wind
a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought
and so it goes

 



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