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love poem

he's gone
i do not pray for peace
days endeared to every muse
with the sunset
what do i owe to you
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
risen from the dead
she must go back, she said
there was a strangeness on your lips
the snow whispers about me
come down at dawn from windless hills
the old west, the old time
dear wife
long has the summer sunlight shone

 



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