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black poetry

night is dark, and the winter winds
in and of itself
there is an hour of peaceful rest
rocked in the cradle of the deep
this is the song of youth
beautiful
good woman
leave the lovely words unsaid
blossoms of babies
of sun nor stars
passing through huddled and ugly walls
the pale day drowses on the western steep
i have heard that a certain princess
from floor to ceiling

 



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