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The Dieing Heart Whispering hills spirits cry lone wolf sings sadly the creek is quiet though it flows the banks vacant and dry faces in stone the owl shudders not other nocturnal fare is the same tears fall in silence but so heavily of the soul they do drain my will like a fever that searches but there is only the power of a sigh shadows cover as to camouflage as my heart now slowly dies. TEA Bv 1999 |
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