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A chilly wind blows tonight with stiff lips, whistling a dirge down the dark, empty glen Clouds hover in an apple-crisp night sky Thin, streaming clouds, stingy clouds
Fallen leaves and autumn trees A chilly November dawn When dreams won't take flight and wintry whispers wake A man sits alone  
Echo, you privilege soul Stand by as I pillage your home Watch as they rave your condemnation We have yet to live.  
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