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thank you poem

she said
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
the pale day drowses on the western steep
are you alive?
what spiteful chance steals unawares
within my hand i hold
she knows a cheap release
i saw god. do you doubt it?
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
this is the song of youth
do not turn your head

 



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