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suicide poetry

never in all my life
we break the glass whose sacred wine
i have come into the desert because my soul is athirst
now while my lips are living
the rain was over, and the brilliant air
before the solemn bronze saint
under the harvest moon
desolate and lone
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
i go my way complacently
just now
thou unrelenting past

 



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