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epic poetry

give me
who will be naming the wind
quietly, with reverance, in awe
i have to say good-night
here falls no light
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
the little white prayers
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
i do not pray for peace
no prey am i of poor thoughts
skies they were ashen and sober
there's one that i once loved so much
in mournful numbers
and how could you dream of meeting

 



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