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suicide poem

winged shadows sweeping by
my soul is a dark ploughed field
candles toppling sideways in tomato cans
backward, turn backward
there are gains for all our losses
there were three in the meadow by the brook
if the red slayer think he slays
for then without
the meadow was creeping
the sun is up
she has a clear, wind-sheltered loveliness

 



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