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black poetry

this is the song of youth
do you think, my boy, when i put my arms around you
out of the sparkling sea
there by the window in the old house
there is no escape by the river
he speaks not well
into the silent land
uplifting, as the wind blew
let me be sad
you are clear
the pale day drowses on the western steep
she might have known it in the earlier spring

 



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