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sympathy poem

do the boys and girls still go
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
over the river, on the hill
i flung my soul to the air like a falcon flying
i fill this cup
who will be naming the wind
this ancient silver bowl of mine
just now
perhaps
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
three years ago today
in his guarded tent
as evening falls

 



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