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love poem

i am old and blind
see, from this counterfeit of him
i loved a woman
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
high-born race
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
i loathed you
all within and all without me
if i should die, think only this of me
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
when night drifts along the streets of the city
passing through huddled and ugly walls
soft as the bed in the earth
when i returned at sunset

 



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