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Poetry/Lyrics
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The Sea
The sand flows,
in earbabble whispers,
gently in soft gravity,
falling as mist,
a million tears, voices,
of a grey past,
whirling in the breaths of history.
Gently in soft gravity,
the grains tumble.
A million tears, falling, salty
to a glass-flat level,
to which all things are destined,
to tiny ripples, ever decreasing,
an ever-dying sea.
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