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birds against the april wind
my sorrow, when she's here with me
in your arms was still delight
as a white candle
not from the whole wide world
there was a strangeness on your lips
i do not pray for peace
the mountains they are silent folk
tell me
if i should die, think only this of me
beside a stricken field
be in me as the eternal moods
once this soft turf
with lips blood red and heart of stone

 



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