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writing poetry

sadly speaking
there was a time in former years
a look is but a ray
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
little park that i pass through
a mist was driving down
leave the lovely words unsaid
shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
quietly, with reverance, in awe
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
tripping up, falling down
there by the window in the old house
you are clear
i love my life, but not too well

 



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