An old sun hangs near a sky
But it will be pale and white.
The old walk on beach sand.
Sand will be brown and hot.
Mornings are red, still-born.
Evenings turn red and dead.
An old sun hangs near a sky
But it will be pale and white.
The old walk on beach sand.
Sand will be brown and hot.
Mornings are red, still-born.
Evenings turn red and dead.
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