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romantic poem

my mother taught me that every night
hang no wreath
woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
my sorrow, when she's here with me
i am a woman
the little white prayers
i am the wind that wavers
your body's motion is like music
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
desolate and lone
i have cast the world
and my name is truthful
at dawn, he said

 



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