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death poem

do you hear the rain?
stay no more
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
as it
i do not pray for peace
take my bracelets
lady, your heart has turned to dust
he speaks not well
birds against the april wind
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
my soul goes clad in gorgeous things
made up of loveliness alone
weak-winged is song

 



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