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I see lost dead writing,
As the children are sighing.
The swallows fly high
As I scavenger my way at night,
"O, my dear love where may you be hiding?"
The soil begs for me to use her as a blanket.
She senses by the tremble of my toes
That I have no other inanimate object to cover up my visage.
And then there was pouring rain,
All of my disguise washed away,
To and fro did I pace myself up there,
For whatever reasons now I have of no great care!
I shall never find her now,
Shan't the sky be ******?
For all the humility it has done for me!
And before she appears beyond ye
Do not let time turn her into grains of sand!
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