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Dark Hours will be forlorn

Soon the late dark hours will be forlorn
Note bright time shall be greatly born
Sand grains falls fast through the thin fingers
While gray air rests on shores still lingers

A lady waits at the glass to see him
With her mum, they look to be just prim
Rush to the door, to tell of any new whim
The man speaks with eyes of water brim

He was given a special gun
That was shot at the midnight sun



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