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child poetry

perhaps it is no matter that you died
the old west, the old time
why then, must we see?
tell me
just as my fingers on these keys
backward, turn backward
there is a country full of wine
in his guarded tent
my sorrow, when she's here with me
sweet splendor
give me hunger
truely
those on the top say they know you, earth-they are liars
a sky that has never known sun, moon or stars

 



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