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All English Sonnets


On first of April, Nineteen Eighty Eight
You went away to where the gods reside.
And we have, since then. been disconsolate-
Vaccuumed, empty, hapless, woe-be-tide.

Bereft of you, these nameless, aimless years-
Groping, blundering, always round the bend-
Hoping that our endless anguished tears
Would somehow cease; miseries would end.

But all our clueless mending bears no fruit.
And our all striving seems to be in vain.
Your parting has been such a ruthless brute,-
No blood is left in us for it to drain.

From the day you left us, to this day,
The magic, from our, lives has flown away.

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