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poetry poem

and as we walked the grass was faintly stirred
with the sunset
i know what you're going to say
if i were very sure
my soul is a dark ploughed field
do you hear the rain?
skies they were ashen and sober
i love to steal awhile away
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
is there anybody there
dear wife

 



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