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Our long awaited love;
Cannot seem to bloom;
A long journey toward you my dove;
And all roads of doom.

In this journey, my nights are getting colder;
With unkind burning morrows;
Everything is getting sore and older;
Except my will, my doubts and sorrows.

My feet are worn and crawling won’t conquer;
The glorious red dunes ahead;
I guess this valley, this bunker;
Is my final resting bed.
My northern star my heart, I bid thee fare well.
In another life we’ll meet, or when you leave this hell.
©FAT 2016