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When that big and fine horse
 
runs around like hell
 
she is searching as
 
she does not find her home,
not while it is ruined beyond repair,
 
and not the gloomy times
 
full of teary rain
 
flushing from the eyes up to the sky
 
are playing another silly walrus balance game
 
and hide the promised pardise,
 
it is just her natural dance
 
that keeps her carrying
 
the burden of her music.
 
She runs to find the meadow
 
sunset
 
but finds only woods, trees, blocked view.
 
No flowers
 
on her fairy-meadow.
 
She
 
runs on, that horse,
 
while others sit,
 
because she is at home already
 
there in the running-around.
not while it is ruined beyond repair,
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dieda
Last updated: March 13, 2010
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