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black poetry

the saddest of the year
she limps with halting painful pace
blossoms of babies
so lost
i walk down the garden paths
under dusky laurel leaf
at midnight
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
behold me, in my chiffon, gauze and tinsel
how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
at dawn, he said

 



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