Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots | I know what I know |
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You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily | The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus |
Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is apparent that there is no death | The smell of the earth is good |
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