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| Dylan Thomas |
(1939)
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| Twenty-Four Years | ||||
| Twenty-four years remind the tears of my eyes. (Bury the dead for fear that they walk to the grave in labor.) in the groin of the natural doorway I crouched like a tailor Sewing a shroud for a journey By the light of the meat-eating sun. Dressed to die, the sensual strut begun, With my red veins full of money, in the final direction of the elementary town I advance for as long as forever is. |
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