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baby poem

that year
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
beneath the warrior's helm
this is the song of youth
my soul is a dark ploughed field
in an old chamber softly lit
sweet splendor
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
rocked in the cradle of the deep
i stood by the open casement
in september
truely
friend, whose smile has come to be

 



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