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angel poem

it was the autumn of the year
it was a tall young oysterman
my soul is a dark ploughed field
the hypocritic days
i had over-prepared the event
if i should die, think only this of me
i saw him once before
gone are the three, those sisters rare
i had a dream and i awoke with it
the agony of having too much power
we were not many

 



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