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Apr 2015
Upon a birds feather,
in this stark weather,
he rises into the sky with wings.
He blocks out the sun,
I hear the silent hum,
and all the world sings.
As I feel his embrace,
I see his face,
and wipe a tear away with a sigh.
All I see is death,
there is nothing left,
and with that I finally die.
Written by
Edgar Gordon
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