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child poetry

my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
why are the things that have no death
my soul is a dark ploughed field
do you remember
high-born race
candles toppling sideways in tomato cans
when, full of warm and eager love
the lightning flashed, and lifted
musing, between the sunset and the dark
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies

 



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