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modern poetry

i love the old melodious lays
my son is dead and i am going blind
beautiful
the air is like a butterfly
when i returned at sunset
i am old and blind
i have heard them in the night
all within and all without me
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
i love my life, but not too well
stern cold man
give me
in halls of sleep you wandered by
dear wife

 



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