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Poem	IF you never came with a pigeon rainbow purple Shining in the six o’clock September dusk: If the red sumach on the autumn roads Never danced on the flame of your eyelashes: If the red-haws never burst in a million Crimson fingertwists of your heartcrying: If all this beauty of yours never crushed me Then there are many flying acres of birds for me, Many drumming gray wings going home I shall see, Many crying voices riding the north wind.
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