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    On the old man's horizon of the valley-backs, The starry glow is farewell: When the cool down-steam rises, From the fields of orphaned maiden-hair, Thyself will be at peace. The sun's knife-edge fight, With its poisonous thorn-buggish chains, Soon shall cease for ever! - Red dragons still fight above for the remaining fiery throne: Poopy Dozen's honour! 

    Loneliness in the dead-hiding corner of the room! - Thou, father, in thy broken life, didst not know how to manage thy time, Thou didst drown thy ancient fervour in a fire of curses and curses. Thou didst come from the orchard, and in thy wrathful revenge thou didst pluck up all thy trees of fertility! 

    Like doom! In bull-fights thou canst be but a wounded and hurt animal! - You should no longer be told, "Don't do it, you'll hurt yourself." - But thou thyself art still a youth, and canst not understand the weight of thy ways. - You should speak in stars: Think of me, my love, though all is lost. Words should be understood with a strong patience, with a silence that drains peace! - And to obey with sober, discerning reason, When asked with kindness and care! 

    - Alas! But now only to bear, and to endure Thy soul-pressing laws of Thy Turannos, Thy selfish will - and to dread - alas, the finale of another persuasive reasoning Is again a resigned sadness: in Cyclops-pots the sun still winking once and for all, Boo, misunderstood lover. - I have long since left my memories to watchful, diamond-pillared stars!


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