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writing poetry

beautiful
blossoms of babies
sadly speaking
like eagles on up high
lived by the river-side
i saw with open eyes
when freedom from her mountain height
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
in the dark and peace of my final bed
still thirteen years
what was it the engines said
let me be sad
beneath the warrior's helm
i have come into the desert because my soul is athirst

 



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