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footprint poem

sleep sweetly in your humble graves
the single clenched fist lifted and ready
the poets tell
stay no more
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
city that is not a city
we break the glass whose sacred wine
brother, i am fire
up to her chamber window
there is no escape by the river
star-dust and vaporous light
why are the things that have no death
i love my hour of wind and light


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