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the fragrance came
the swan existing
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
under the harvest moon
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
they ask me where i've been
i have seen the proudest stars
i saw you hunched and shivering on the stones
i fill this cup
when the hours of day are numbered
in the cloud-gray mornings
tell me less or tell me more
we were not many
he'd even have his joke

 



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