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black poetry

i know what you're going to say
in his guarded tent
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
though love repine, and reason chafe
made up of loveliness alone
tell me not
tripping up, falling down
since i have felt the sense of death
i love the old melodious lays
let a joy keep you
are you awake?
when the hours of day are numbered
my son is dead and i am going blind
braided and woven

 



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