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A Distant Strath

An ancient hollow down that twisting lane 
Damp mists caressed and kissed with early dew.
Twas always such a deep and drear terrain
Where dusty serrate leaves the oaks would strew.

Bare feet were jostling piles as we would stroll,
While touching sweating palms, along a path.
Then innocently kissed upon a knoll
And saw beyond the glen that far off strath.

We dreamt of living where all joy was green,
Where people didn't spread their awful gloom,
And neighbors thought as we, were not so mean,
Allowing love to blossom, and to bloom.

That twisting lane our hearts may yet discern, 
But only in our past, we'll not return.

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