Here has become something else without much of the sun
The wind takes her toil, she dances about with no care
When the South forge towards the cold rainy season
The queer climate of the evening is seen in the morning
The mildness, softness of the wind makes all, everything cold,
Even when the sun rise, her warmth is little, insignificant
Overshadowed by the icy cold, a very strong reminder
Of strange tales of wild cold places; Utopia, some vampire land
Yet this early morning was just being born,
And a lot have not been seen, for the day is young
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