Six truths
Dissolves like a dress of night, which doesn't make any of my ambitions, or my omissions right, as enshrouded in the yore, O Martyr, what remembrance of light has the sound of primeval cry? Receiving the motive, far removed from its sources, unrestorable even in the might and presence of your sight tremendously under that dubious and subdued shine of yesterday it tries, Enshrining the destruction and roving lines; but for your love had it crushed all to mites all empire. Yet a flower breathes spring. Yet a city will stand, brighter when the sun is down, a city of no more fashioning strand than your pure vesture, pines, ample pyres of them, and a mound before me; flanked by the two rivers stationed by that shore you once tried to restore. O vain thoughts!
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