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lost love poem

the swan existing
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
she said
the stars fell from heaven
muffled drum's sad roll has beat
as a white candle
when freedom from her mountain height
with her hair flaying wildly
as i lie roofed in, screened in
beautiful, tragical faces
i am the wind that wavers
see, they return
i expect you
awful truths these be

 



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