The golden hour, a fleeting, sunlit grace,
It isn't slipped, like sand through trembling hands.
Wings are unfurled to find rightful place,
Where joy awaits, in far and vibrant lands.
The rose that blooms, today, may fade tomorrow,
So scent is drunk to cherish every hue.
Doubts are cast off to banish each sorrow,
For time, once lost, returns to none of...
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