My life
Came like the fog
From those tall hills
And like a dew
It will disappear
In these endless fields of grass
I pass
This funeral shroud of being
And the scars
Laid in golden dust
"Over this journey, ill
And over fields all withered,
Dreams go wandering still."
I return
To the lonely
Wooden halls
The plains of bliss
And solitude
The barren wastes of the transient
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