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Death by the Moon

Death by the Moon A virtue of tunes, a feeling of moons, a resounding blue, catastrophe for two. Sick, sound, selfish, rebound, when old squares are gleaming, when shadows are bleeding. And only old fools can gather, only old tress smell of ashes and roots, and in time, old said and old dead, old carved and old wine, heaven strikes nine.
Death by the Moon

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