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VIII
The bottles of gin are all empty,
The pipes have long since been lit:
Where is the Lethean water that can truly make me forget?
Where is the perfect opiate that can stem the tide of regret?
You were the colour in autumn,
You were the light in the lamp-
Your caravan moves on without me, taking the goods from the camp.
Now I am left here, forgotten: a gypsy, a wretch, a tramp.
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