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The doe weeps tears of blood
lying down in the soft blue grass
endless miles of wind, rippling.
what is it, then?
she thinks of silver hills of distant memory.
but if life is like a dream then what is this, then?
nothing more than dwindling echoes, maybe.
lying down in the soft blue grass.
the doe weeps tears of blood.
tied to the pace of the Heavens at dusk,
Earth turns over Her sleeper.