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death poem

stuff of the moon
and still they walked on
gone before us
among the mountains i wandered
and my name is truthful
i heard the wind all day
up from the meadows rich with corn
backward, turn backward
i know what you're going to say
i stand in the cold gray weather
be not false
quietly, with reverance, in awe
awful truths these be
you say you love me

 



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