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poetry in motion

there was never a sound beside the wood but one
one by one, like leaves from a tree
now while my lips are living
there is a country full of wine
but alas, just dreams
out of the sparkling sea
by the rude bridge
last night the full moon laid a cloth of white
through the broad earth's aching breast
she must go back, she said
muffled drum's sad roll has beat

 



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