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father poem

i burn no incense
just as my fingers on these keys
beautiful, tragical faces
be not angry with me
sleep, gray brother of death
let us pity those who are better off than we are
to some the fat gods
the agony of having too much power
sing again the song you sung
when the hours of day are numbered
i have had one fear in my life
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
i am old and blind

 



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