The Congealed Dew
Though I move in the multitude,
0f men, women tall, thin, fat, small,
Yet find no breast or a shoulder,
To rest upon my head to shed tears,
Drops of molten pangs and sorrows,
Which make my heart too loathsome,
That always cries to slacken its load,
Borne since I was born to abode,
In the world where each rose,
Is surrounded by thorns,
And each pointed thorn bears,
The dew of congealed dry blood.
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