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among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
high walls and huge
in the sphere
blossoms of babies
i make my shroud, but no one knows
a bird sang
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
the air is like a butterfly
as a white candle
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
against the green flame of the hawthorn-tree
i see all human wits
i saw god. do you doubt it?

 



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