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My love, my life, lowered below the ground
To be trampled upon by many feet

And covered up by a cold, crisp white sheet
Of hate, death and a morbid open wound

The graveyard holds host to solely one sound
Nature is dead, lacking even a tweet
From clouds cascade down a vigorous sleet
Buries musical mourners from around

Although, when above her the grass will grow
Winter turns to spring, away goes the snow
Like compost for new ground with thirst so deep
She befalls for which I no longer weep
Her beauty at heart, her face always there
When spring releases the bitter cold air





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