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christian poem

my true love from her pillow rose
let us pity those who are better off than we are
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
braided and woven
the pale day drowses on the western steep
have you seen walking through the village
at midnight
birds against the april wind
a sky that has never known sun, moon or stars
in your flight
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale

 



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