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good bye poem

i stand in the cold gray weather
perhaps
in the sphere
before the solemn bronze saint
he came and took me by the hand
this is the arsenal
what shall we do now
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
those black eyes i once so praised
in his guarded tent
burly, dozing humble-bee
since i have felt the sense of death
i am old and blind

 



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