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Clouds | ||
Clouds blow in and then they go. Some are giving us a show. They're a mix of gray and white, Sculpting forms before our sight. Christ is peeking through a hole As the clouds around Him roll. How they like to ring the slope, Clinging to a fleeting hope That this time they will remain There until they shed some rain. But the sun will come about And ere long will drive them out. | ||
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