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The Pre-Poem

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Looking up from the heaven, Until dying,
I long to have no blots of shame
Even on the leaves when the winds are stirring,
So being tortured by myself I have to blame
 
With the heart that sings the stars' ray,
I will love all the things be
Dying. And I will walk the way
That hath been given to me.
 
Again, the wind of gust, to-o--Night, brushes the stars, too.