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sad death poem

blossoms of babies
they threw a stone, you threw a stone
over the rooftops race the shadows of clouds
if i had known how narrow a prison is love
there is a city, builded by no hand
some of the hurts you have cured
the hypocritic days
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
once this soft turf
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
when the wind works against us in the dark

 



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