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lyric poem

with the meek, brown eyes
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
let us express our baser passions
gone before us
up and down he goes
my soul is a dark ploughed field
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
the air is like a butterfly
full of tears
shines the last age, the next with hope is seen
there is no flock, however watched and tended
last midnight
he's gone

 



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