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Raindrops on a midsummer day,
A chapel where we go to pray,
Tears from angels at our diversions,
A generation fully conversant;
We each fly our own kite, puzzling
To make it presentable – not trite,
Be it notably spoiling,
Or exceedingly valuable;
Hearts of material hunger render us sad,
Tears from angels at love we stab,
- In due course our actions stacked,
Reminiscing this –


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