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poem

be not false
those black eyes i once so praised
dark-eyed
though love repine, and reason chafe
darkest, strangest mystery
beneath the warrior's helm
there is a country full of wine
some of the hurts you have cured
this ancient silver bowl of mine
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
the earth keeps some vibration going
this is the arsenal
grieve not for the invisible
within my hand i hold

 



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