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come and go while I stay gripped to pine and the sugar of existence runs through
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From now on,
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flinging itself forth in winter
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As a sandy track-rut changes when called a Silk Road:
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Oh swirling petals, all living things are contingent,
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If you want to know the correct time,
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at the pace of drift
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And then he cocked both his pistols and he spit in the dirt
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“You can never —”
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Corn Dancers rise in a line, follow my calf,