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| Topic: Final Ode | |
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Oh, how many odes have I written to you?
Far too many I think. "And what for?" I ask. You convent them not, Don't take them to heart. They swirl around and above your head Sometimes passing right over you. Oh, how can your blindness be so blind? Far too obvious I think, "My Love For You" I say. But my odes wither like autumn leaves, hanging by threads. Then, dancing in the air around and above your head, Falling, falling, Passing right under your feet. |
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