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christmas poem

though i am little as all little things
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
when a deed is done for freedom
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
looking beyond
the darkness
and so it goes
glass-blower of time
he's gone
which keeps
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
there was a strangeness on your lips
why then, must we see?
he speaks not well

 



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