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It dies first in a shroud
So carefully prepared
With its coffin hidden
And suspended in the air
But the spirit can't remain
It forces itself free
Emerging from the shell
In deft simplicity
It dwells there for a while
Not wanting to let go
Of vestiges of life
The phantom used to know
Its Ephemeral wings grow restless
Of this pithy view of earth
Contigous to the land
Deprived of heaven's mirthAnd so the painted wings
Glide easily and well
It leaves without a glance
At its broken prison cell
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