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Fog | ||
| Fog is shrouding brilliant tree, Cloaking it in mystery. What does it perchance conceal? Will it not the leaf reveal? Fog is formless, vague and wet, Sometimes rolling, sometimes set. Sun will soon the blanket lift, Causing it to clear and drift. We are sometimes fog-like, too, When we feel morose or blue! Covering the things around Till our happiness is found. | ||
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