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death poetry

this is the song of youth
as i lie roofed in, screened in
high-born race
sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea
beneath the warrior's helm
in mournful numbers
from our hidden places
a little peach in the orchard grew
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
i heard the wind all day
short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it
desolate and lone

 



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