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good bye poem

my son is dead and i am going blind
the air is like a butterfly
soft as the bed in the earth
though i am little as all little things
but i cannot read you now
at midnight
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
rocked in the cradle of the deep
softly now the light of day
she was a beauty in the days
calm as that second summer

 



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