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suicide poem

is there anybody there
i can not tell you now
for these white arms about my neck
the rain was over, and the brilliant air
thou unrelenting past
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
for truth, for love
the ancient songs
why are the things that have no death
which keeps
when, full of warm and eager love
simplicity
under the harvest moon
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be

 



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