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son poem

good woman
in their ragged regimentals
i loathed you
i have come into the desert because my soul is athirst
there is a city, builded by no hand
but alas, just dreams
i sometimes wonder if it's really true
we break the glass whose sacred wine
there was a strangeness on your lips
why so sad my lovely one?
i saw god. do you doubt it?

 



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