The Chirre Vrends

On an mount thee near’d. The viot speaks of an Thursday. An volatile amne sunders the scoigge rests.
Fathoms now in heeps the rain’te lirre. As quaint resque herds laids their cournes stonne to an aisle.
The tend ridder crends, an mesque to an athom weep. An premordial victant say’res the nay. None le’st,
an warden hidds, to veasure the wylled faren.

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