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birthday poetry

my mother twines me roses wet with dew
how shall i help to right the world that is going wrong
she burst fierce wine
some one complained to the master
i am the wind that wavers
in an old chamber softly lit
a storm is riding on the tide
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
there is a city, builded by no hand
do the boys and girls still go

 



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