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death poetry

i am old and blind
last midnight
the snow whispers about me
when the hours of day are numbered
my sorrow, when she's here with me
skies they were ashen and sober
at dawn, he said
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
no prey am i of poor thoughts
simply speaking
a gleam of gold in gloom and gray
the hypocritic days
this is the ship of pearl
they ask me where i've been

 



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