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the flowers burst in
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Three paces in the moonlight’s glow I stand,
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I remember sounds like that from my childhood,
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Where the old trees reign with their forward dark
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They know the future,
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In the temper and the tantrum, in the well-kept arboretum
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Smiling
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Their friendship will be glorious, their time has no limit.
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the texture of persimmons,
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I thought I saw Robert Johnson