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The bud’s blossom is past glossy,
Time passing has folded its shiver.
Age wither and dry up the rosy
In certain preparation for shivah.

The past left without all of its,
As the present live any place else.
And now, always alone like this;
How then can the old ever bless?

Dryness of thirst spoke its waste
As all bare feet thorns had hurt.
Peacefully alone, wait for fate
With memories in a bodily hut.

When time has consumed its old
As water passes under the bridge;
This route for all, floods any hold
And water must pass under the bridge.

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