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Death Of A Night

So early you do seldom come.
Is it two or half-past-one?
Slithering down the rope of time;
With a half-rimmed moon on a decline.

Yonder she lands with a soft, little ‘tut’;
And sneaking-in with not a grudge.
Are you early; or am I too late?
Or, is it indeed but our fate!

O, ring those bells; and blow the conch.
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7/23/2021 3:12:01 PM # 1.0.0.663