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ΔN ΔCCEP†ΔBLE †IME
02:54
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MΔNY WΔ†ERS
07:30
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"I remember greens in December,
Longing for hue, just like they're used to.
And then the leaves,
And then the trees,
They turn to gold.
And they unfold,
Into another, a wise brother,
Of the winter, spring and the summer.
But they are prone,
To growing old.
They disappear,
like we all fear."
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