the turning circle of the years
is so set up that we must fail
must fall into the grinding gears
give up and go with one last wail
lift up our eyes and see our friends
heads bent with tears and then set sail
there's no great purpose that commends
itself to us no message sent
in the pale wintry light that bends
upon our heads and won't relent
lying on the floor in solemn bars
where the sole word is discontent
at night the clouds will hide bright stars
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