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Mar 2015
Sun burns away the day, Night is born,
Wrapped in blankets of clouds, handsome lad.

Tell the stars that I am jealous of the moon,
For with the dying of each new day;

Crystal orb with swaddling of mist and light,
Nursemaid that she is-

She attends, O precious delight,
The infant Night!
This is an old poem of mine.
S R Mats
Written by
S R Mats  F/Houston, TX
(F/Houston, TX)   
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