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This world is like a murky wood
Its men all tall, tenacious trees
While women flower into fragrant buds
Flocked in virtues like a cloud of bees.
But once clear paths are overgrown
By many a rooting root
Once bright meadows slumber dull -
The song and sun now cold and mute.
The trees that spring twist and stoop
No more to stand for a thousand years
And at their side, no flowers bloom -
Only tawdry thistles flourish here.
