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Subject: Poem


Author:
Otterears of the Rambling Rascals
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Date Posted: 15:56:22 10/08/05 Sat
 Night has closed upon the piles of leaves.
Winter closes in on the quiet closings.
The red harvest moon wanes from sight,
leaving a frosty moon this night.
The warrior will speak to the one whose lost.
The mean willl not be put to justice.
The heir will find refuge in the limbs of mother nature.
And you can find her there.
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