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christian poem

i expect you
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
the light withdrawn
dark-eyed
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
beneath the warrior's helm
sweet splendor
city that is not a city
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
three days i heard them grieve when i lay dead
this ancient silver bowl of mine
my true love from her pillow rose
i have heard them in the night

 



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