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Te rain beats down, In patterns, Like the beat of a drum, A cloudy gray sky, With no promise, Of seeing the sun, Wind from the north, Cuts through, To the bone, Yet my mind wanders, Toward a place, That's called home, I carry my blade, Wear armor, tarnished, And battle worn, Yet I hunger, For the place, I was born, Following a cause, A thing called honor, For which I fight, On the king's business, I travel, The quest of a knight, Though my feet, Moves forward, My soul moves not, For it returns, On wings of the heart, To Camalot. Written December 28th, 2001 © on Dec 27 2001 11:59 PM PST, Phyllis Thompson 0 • 10
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"Te rain beats down,..."