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death poem

beneath my window in a city street
thoughts through my head
the mountains they are silent folk
sun stepped down from his golden throne
i've won the race
see the tentative
but i cannot read you now
never in all my life
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
as i lie roofed in, screened in
have you heard
stay no more
noises that strive to tear
i love my hour of wind and light

 



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