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fall poem

high-born race
the meadow was creeping
dark-eyed
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
i sometimes wonder if it's really true
this is the song of youth
little gate was reached at last
old wine to drink
within my hand i hold
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it

 



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