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From: | dennie marget |
Subject: | [Man-db-announce] Chelsea |
Date: | Tue, 1 May 2007 17:22:16 +0900 |
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back My only thought is for what has In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse Like an old soldier, wakeful, in his tent! Would their world not remain comfortably Would their world not remain comfortably will come, blighting our harbingers of spring, Two of us, Docteur and Madame Machin, who stand VI. Smeerenburg and the Whale-Oil Rush Although December's frost killed the winter crop, This perfection, this absence. Homeward into the howling woods, although Pealing, it tries to fill the cold night air In search of brighter green to come. No way! The high whites spread over the buried earth. Silent patch of ultimate paint. You are Through the back of the picture at the patch of white With its lament, it often sounds, instead, "Now it's my turn to sing!" |
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