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child poetry

and how could you dream of meeting
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
sleep, gray brother of death
with lips blood red and heart of stone
why then, must we see?
were it not for that singular smell
up from the meadows rich with corn
she might have known it in the earlier spring
at midnight
day is done
there was a time in former years
do i like it
here lies a most beautiful lady

 



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