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brother poem

no prey am i of poor thoughts
in the sphere
what spiteful chance steals unawares
last midnight
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
a little peach in the orchard grew
the stars fell from heaven
why do
sleep, gray brother of death
skies they were ashen and sober
when the wind works against us in the dark
royal feast was done
my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
i said, i have shut my heart

 



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