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Days Of The Year

He swore never to die in this happiness,
As the night passed into itself and cheered
With a black eye, and a black face,
Forming twisters and states that had abodes.
He reasoned with the selfless prisoners
Inside the intellectual minds of ire,
So that treason was uprooted
And damnation was the cursed belonging.
He swore never to die in this mud
Of the very sky so dim with rage

Now that the day had crept up and shivered.
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