I'm all so pity poor;
that death passed me astray;
on roads we met no more,
for what worth I could pay?
petal 054: Pity Poor
I'm all so pity poor;
that death passed me astray;
on roads we met no more,
for what worth I could pay?
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Poetry is a sense-blossoming flower that never wilts.
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I'm all so pity poor;
that death passed me astray;
on roads we met no more,
for what worth I could pay?