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Benni Hemm Hemm
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Sorgartár
It ticks the grass in the whistling wind it lives so so thin in the piercing cold it sleeps so light when it eases It rises the sea in the eyes and testicles it rips the undercurrent drop the breath from your lips It blows the rocks in the whistling of the birds but it never budges the hidden heavy cliffs, nor softens the tide in your eyessorrow drops
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