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poem for pastors

within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
brief on a flying night
these be
stuff of the moon
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
world that changes under my hand
babylon-where i go dreaming
beautiful
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
i was a goddess ere the marble found me
dark-eyed
lo! 'tis a gala night

 



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