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thanksgiving poetry

do not grieve that it is over
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb
soft as the bed in the earth
desolate and lone
beautiful, tragical faces
within my hand i hold
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
in and of itself
gone are the three, those sisters rare
i stood by the open casement
shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
brother, i am fire
at dawn, he said

 



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