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Oh, my son... I know your pain, I know the face which you bury. Your greatest fear has come. Be steadfast and wary: for tears which are plenty become thrown like the penny.
˙snɥʇ ǝʌɹɐʇs noʎ ǝǝs ll,ı ǝɹoɯɹǝʌǝɹoɟ 'ʇsǝʌɹɐɥ ɹnoʎ dɐǝɹ puɐ sʇooɹ ǝɥʇ ʇuɐldsuɐɹʇ ˙uoıʇoɯǝ pǝpınƃsıɯ uı ǝɔuǝƃlnpuı ɥsıɟlǝs ʇnq ʇou sı "ʎuɐɥdıdǝ" pǝɯıɐlɔoɹd pǝɯıɐlɔoɹd-ɟlǝs sıɥʇ
My flower, sweet delicate passion: why are you here? For all your sorrow: here, tears only hasten. Your love is wasted past these gates, there is no refuge in the deluge.
˙ɹǝɔuɐɔ s,uoıʇsǝnb ǝɥʇ :ɹǝʍsuɐ ɹnoʎ ʍouʞ noʎ ˙uʍoɹp puɐ ʇlǝɯ sǝpıɥ 'uʍop ɯǝɥʇ ɥsɐʍ sǝpıʇ ˙ɯnɯǝɥʇuɐsʎɹɥɔ ¿¡ǝuop ı ǝʌɐɥ ʇɐɥʍ ¿ǝuop ı ǝʌɐɥ ʇɐɥʍ 'pǝuunɥs suoıʇoɯǝ
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