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LETTER TO HER IX; THOSE DAYS
LETTER TO HER IX; THOSE DAYS
1 min
195
Our times, a shooting star executing in the dead of night.
Those days, short as a tempting dream in the propinquity of dawn.
Our times, wee hours of blooming of a morning flower.
Those days, travelling rain in summer that briskly passed by.
Time, dead to the voice of man.
