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BRIDE OF THE WIND

by
 for Brenda



Both had come with no gardener but the soul;

I had myself expressed them in weariness,

Like the last drop of milk from your tired breast.
The red rose was no rose for me.
My black rose shone in a silver dawn In the throat of the wind.
On the tongue of the wind I taste your spirit; I will bear you on my toes To the roof of the world.

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