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poetry poem

if the red slayer think he slays
beautiful, tragical faces
their beautiful hair
i can not tell you now
it tells of good old times
a sky that has never known sun, moon or stars
within my hand i hold
thou unrelenting past
gaily through the fields we danced
who is the runner in the skies
when i looked into your eyes
by the shore, by the sea
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
the stars fell from heaven

 



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