to come up over the house
next door so it can
fill out the spectral corners
of the yard with the black roses
that only bloom in the full
moonlight of this one cold
November night here
at the bottom of the world
the faces of the dead
bloom again to ask did there
really have to be a Hitler
a Stalin a Pol Pot
did we still believe in death
back then still think
our thoughts meant nothing
we actually had to do
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