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friend poetry

eighty years have passed, and more
in the sphere
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
moonlight deep and tender
shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
as i lie roofed in, screened in
over the river they beckon to me
i saw with open eyes
a sky that has never known sun, moon or stars
pushing out, struggling vainly
the lightning flashed, and lifted
therefore i may not
a few more windy days
softly weeping

 



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