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suicide poem

the snow whispers about me
brother, i am fire
a storm is riding on the tide
just now
the meadow was creeping
day is done
have you seen walking through the village
sun stepped down from his golden throne
a flying word from here and there
now that i have cooled to you
she might have known it in the earlier spring
there by the window in the old house
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
desolate and lone

 



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