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death poetry

before the solemn bronze saint
and my name is truthful
who is the runner in the skies
little gate was reached at last
i can not tell you now
thou unrelenting past
all my love for my sweet
birds against the april wind
there are gains for all our losses
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
i sometimes wonder if it's really true
softly now the light of day

 



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