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An Interview With The Oldest Man In Europe

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Amid the leaves of this his final Fall
his eyes reflect the blue unminding heavens,
but tell me nothing of the girl he wed
while serving in the Tsar's Imperial Guard,

tell me nothing of the six sons she bore
during the Great War and Revolution,
and nothing of the hellish years he spent,
a prisoner-slave in Kolyma's mines.
Like Midas, all he touches turns to gold—
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Friday, February 5, 2016
Topic(s) of this poem: death
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