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A  STORY  OF  OLD

 

And it comes easy in the night

like some slight

touching of a bird

and it becomes a bright

burning in its brilliance

like a bird or some other flaming

thing on the wing.

 

blown over with the snow,

oh look at it go, it is not me

but the wind that rushes through me.

 

In the night I desire

it to be eternal darkness

with no sun rise

through the long hours,

only the broken towers,

of the moon

only the lady underneath them

in her gown of blue gold

that shimmers like the fire fly.

 

Bye and bye

love will hit

again between men

and we will swing

in the dawn

with long arms.

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