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in his guarded tent
i walk down the garden paths
the arches of the red bridge
have we no shame?
i make my shroud, but no one knows
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
just as my fingers on these keys
all my love for my sweet
the single clenched fist lifted and ready
sad are they who know not love
above them all, looking down
melancholy days have come

 



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