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thanksgiving poetry

the mountains they are silent folk
gaily through the fields we danced
they may talk of love in a cottage
they in the darkness gather and ask
master of human destinies am i
my son is dead and i am going blind
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
my soul is a dark ploughed field
i am fevered
skies they were ashen and sober
i said
a sky that has never known sun, moon or stars
soft as the bed in the earth

 



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