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thanksgiving poem

i make my shroud, but no one knows
you say you love me
beneath the warrior's helm
i saw god. do you doubt it?
stuff of the moon
out of me unworthy and unknown
i burn no incense
love me at last, or if you will not
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
quietly, with reverance, in awe
braided and woven

 



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