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haiku poem

no prey am i of poor thoughts
they may talk of love in a cottage
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
rocked in the cradle of the deep
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
could we but know
i stood
let me move slowly through the street
my son is dead and i am going blind
their beautiful hair
which i wish to remark
over the river, on the hill
i had over-prepared the event

 



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