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autumn poetry

often is it not so?
burly, dozing humble-bee
with the meek, brown eyes
stir
a mile behind
i have seen the proudest stars
i love to steal awhile away
what was it the engines said
to some the fat gods
i am singing to you
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb
the mountains they are silent folk
sweet splendor

 



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