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Crow Sickene

His illness was something could not vomit him up.
Unwinding the world like a ball of wool Found the last end tied round his own finger.
Decided to get death, but whatever Walked into his ambush Was always his own body.
Where is this somebody who has me under? He dived, he journeyed, challenging, he climbed and with a glare Of hair on end finally met fear.
His eyes sealed up with shock, refusing to see.
With all his strength he struck.
He felt the blow.
Horrified, he fell.

Poem by Ted Hughes
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