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Gloom in the thicket gapes and swallows
Branches bare as boney hands
Through the wicket and the hallow
Bat's black hair still stands

Liquid face of a child's mind
Perishes in the open storm
Turned gray by the depths of time
Clutching the impeccable form

What is written in my headstone
I will find this out on my own
I will sink to the bottom of the ocean
Before I give up on this only hope

For all these years I've known
In any land I've roamed
What is in me and what is fated to be
Will echo through my burial grove