Rumors
S
Smoky Hoss
0
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Flowers on a cradle
Lilies on a grave;
Every lived soul
Becomes a slave,
To the love we want,
And the dying we get -
Life is rudimentary rumors
And salient storms;
It's an unfinished life
In so many forms,
All are stories we hear from afar,
Rumors, of a Land,where lives no regret -
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