Far flung are the first falling
trailing to find
first place lands the blind
but who answers the calling
when the wind is last wrung
for the bell absent tolling
all things you will roll in
ends wither you've sung
Despite all of my clinging to
something long past
if you ask us to fast
not one will succumb to you
but the falling is fast
in the tall climbs of winter
if the light be not hindered
with the shine of the past
for a few feet of something
when the world wipes your face
the opponent takes pace
with the end of your nothing
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