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A poem in which a person laments after his mother's demise. |
| The world is dark,the wind not fast Blows,with a melancholy Little did I know that this was the last As I placed the sprig of holly. Your serene face has now become calm, With some sort of divinity that's known to last Oh,will you ever come back my dear Mom, As my child,back to this world that's vast. |