Hu i Svingen Skrevet 12. januar 2007 #3 Skrevet 12. januar 2007 Gently they stir, gently rise The dead are newborn awakening With ravaged limbs and wet souls Gently they sigh in rapt funeral amazement Who called these dead to dance?
Gjest King James Skrevet 12. januar 2007 #4 Skrevet 12. januar 2007 am not there, I do not sleep. I am a thousand winds that blow, I am the diamond glints in snow, I am the sunlight and ripened grain. I am the gentle Autumn rain. When you awake in the morning hush, I am the swift upflinging rush Of quiet birds in circling flight. I am the soft stars that shine at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry, I am not there, I did not die.
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