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child poetry

i loathed you
i have to say good-night
let us pity those who are better off than we are
skies they were ashen and sober
sadly speaking
high-born race
the air is like a butterfly
in the cloud-gray mornings
wrap the earth in cloudy weather
three years ago today
blossoms of babies
which i wish to remark
i was a goddess ere the marble found me

 



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