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narrative poetry

have you not heard
there by the window in the old house
two rows of cabbages
i reside at table mountain
do you hear the rain?
i burn no incense
i saw him once before
let us plant
here falls no light
and how could you dream of meeting
i despise my friends more than you
give me
lady, your heart has turned to dust
over the river, on the hill

 



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