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romantic poem

a flying word from here and there
little park that i pass through
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
tell me not
happiness
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
when i go back to earth
it tells of good old times
winged shadows sweeping by
i have cast the world
birds against the april wind
among the mountains i wandered
beautiful
the hypocritic days

 



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