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thanksgiving poem

somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
there is an hour of peaceful rest
full of tears
brother, i am fire
she heard the children playing in the sun
sleep, gray brother of death
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
i stood
gloom
passing through huddled and ugly walls
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
i cannot always feel his greatness
days endeared to every muse
do you remember

 



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