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poem for pastors

i gazed upon the glorious sky
blossoms of babies
do not turn your head
at midnight
beneath the warrior's helm
do i like it
and my name is truthful
passing through huddled and ugly walls
risen from the dead
i go my way complacently
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
the arches of the red bridge
we were not many
stand here by my side

 



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