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melancholy, blue it was
i make my shroud, but no one knows
the mountains they are silent folk
when i returned at sunset
who loves the rain
up and down he goes
he'd even have his joke
noises that strive to tear
for truth, for love
stuff of the moon
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
some one complained to the master
i gazed upon the glorious sky

 



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