The sun is low.
Blinding my eyes.
But it’s heat comforts. Like a warm hand on my forehead.
Rarely it is. Touch much it kills. Too little it kills.
The sun is low. The day is done.
The sun is low.
Blinding my eyes.
But it’s heat comforts. Like a warm hand on my forehead.
Rarely it is. Touch much it kills. Too little it kills.
The sun is low. The day is done.
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