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life poetry

leave the lovely words unsaid
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
i am the wind that wavers
often is it not so?
in his guarded tent
there's one that i once loved so much
braided and woven
he came and took me by the hand
sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea
when i was broke in london
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes

 



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