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grandmother poem

i loathed you
i am singing to you
of sun nor stars
melancholy, blue it was
blossoms of babies
gone are the three, those sisters rare
i expect you
there is a city, builded by no hand
tripping up, falling down
a life on the ocean wave
at dawn, he said
what do i owe to you
last midnight
they may talk of love in a cottage

 



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