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He is a giant,

that man.


His love too tall to bend from high,

howls in sighs and petting feet.

His demeanor wide among us,

fears cricket’s death beneath.

His anger his colossal hands,

to keep close what is dear.

Oafish to the hills and sea,

his repose a catastrophe


We accept his love as obsession,

and the pain of his possession,

for we know of no place here

big enough to hold his tears


And neither could we wish him smaller

for all his ungraceful parts,

because no loss is more tragic

than that of a giant heart

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