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lyric poem

that year
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
why are the things that have no death
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
once this soft turf
though i am little as all little things
look back with longing eyes and know that i will follow
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
i fill this cup
in all things not spoken of
now while my lips are living

 



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