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grandmother poem

it tells of good old times
weak-winged is song
who loves the rain
i loathed you
let us pity those who are better off than we are
why so sad my lovely one?
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
one with you
the air is full of dawn and spring
i had a dream and i awoke with it
to be able to see every side of every question
darkest, strangest mystery

 



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