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Oh, pale-faced oracle of the night,
with shallow stars draped in finery
Oh, harkening witness of my plight
whose lips are crested by crimson light
Who else should know us,
the wolf, cries, but does not carry
the weight of reasoning upon its back
And neither does she,
upon whom my silent cry dwells,
without burden carried in her gait
Yet I should fall trembling to my knees
reckoning shackles tight to my chest
passion borne upon the winter breeze
then swept away in the tilting freeze
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