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baby shower poem

like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
beside a stricken field
i have heard them in the night
let me be sad
and my name is truthful
he'd even have his joke
i make my shroud, but no one knows
once this soft turf
renew the vision of delight
i am dying
let us pity those who are better off than we are
her face is fair and smooth and fine

 



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