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If only the sun could warm my aching soul
shivering within my inner being---immovable---
ancored stilled like frozen stones in the winter's cold.
Strange---the weather of human life
has no predictions to forecast coming tradigies
nor the coming of calming times---
separating reality from orchestrated fiction.
Ah, sundown will come and the moon will rise;
the sandman will go about his chores;
and I shall sink into comforting dreams;
where the wandering soul of sorrow is swollowed up
and fantasy and reality play joyfully together.
