I Love You

I am you, and you are me. There is no difference between us. That is what the French marches meant. When the sweet little baby boy cartoonists, they went down into death, so too did every one of the four million who did then later, some days later, sweet baby boyssweetly, march. They said, did the marchers, the dead baby boys, the four million, in their being, out on the street: all are all, and every, is in every one. From the man, whose brain, it churned love, to the man who bulleted that brain into death. They said: swing low. Sail high. And we rest said: I have failed you. I have failed you. I have lost my way. Lost my nerve. And failed you. But I love you. How I love you. I have turned my back. Left you last. But I love you. I have failed you. I have failed you. I have closed my heart. I have failed you. But I love you. How I love you. All my days now rearranged. To say I love you.

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