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narrative poetry

there is a country full of wine
beside a stricken field
listen to the sounding sea
do i like it
and breaketh bread no more
i do not pray for peace
i loathed you
i despise my friends more than you
the snow whispers about me
i am dying
the air is like a butterfly
in the dark and peace of my final bed
i stood by the open casement

 



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