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gothic poetry

i bid them all farewell
be patient, life, when love is at the gate
arched the flood
my mother taught me that every night
beneath the warrior's helm
the agony of having too much power
are you alive?
soft as the bed in the earth
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb
all down the years
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
to what shall a woman liken her beloved

 



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