The iron bench never warmed my bum. It was the fifth of October and I was hanging with my chum chatting coincidental circumstance of the meeting where the children play.
I am confined in the memory of the spring when I tried to fly with a broken wing, she said.
My dog died and got buried next to the bone last summer. Aye.
The innocent find light in the darkness and remind the wretched wrestling with wrongs where to repent. The presence of preference presides with prejudice over people of purpose.
Tis true to many who tumble through tumultuous times, this time, certainly, is true.
Yes, you muse. What do you think the spring will bring?
Endless paces along brick-laid places pondering peace potential. Aye.
Yes, it has been a time to settle dreams and take a pass.
In her weary tear I see a reflection of me;
hope is the child that comes to rest on her knee.
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