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son poem

stuff of the moon
if the red slayer think he slays
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
last night the full moon laid a cloth of white
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
desolate and lone
better than granite
sweet and strong
in the sphere
the darkness rolls upward
there's one that i once loved so much
from song and dream for ever gone
beautiful, tragical faces
i am dying

 



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