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Among Those Killed In The Dawn Raid Was A Man Aged A Hundred

 When the morning was waking over the war
He put on his clothes and stepped out and he died,
The locks yawned loose and a blast blew them wide,
He dropped where he loved on the burst pavement stone
And the funeral grains of the slaughtered floor.
Tell his street on its back he stopped a sun And the craters of his eyes grew springshots and fire When all the keys shot from the locks, and rang.
Dig no more for the chains of his grey-haired heart.
The heavenly ambulance drawn by a wound Assembling waits for the spade's ring on the cage.
O keep his bones away from the common cart, The morning is flying on the wings of his age And a hundred storks perch on the sun's right hand.

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