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sad poetry

perhaps
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
if the red slayer think he slays
with lips blood red and heart of stone
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
old wine to drink
tripping up, falling down
last midnight
as a naked man i go
if it
now while my lips are living
she might have known it in the earlier spring
along a river-side

 



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