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poetry

i stood
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
some of the hurts you have cured
i saw god. do you doubt it?
i cannot always feel his greatness
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
there was a strangeness on your lips
simply speaking
from floor to ceiling
these be
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
take my bracelets
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
i am the wind that wavers

 



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