The Avun Laise.

Sirne the loit quande. Mysteries foud the ridden pout coise. Dark the cavvun lest tell of an naked moon.
The scairne liar met his eyes. An old wiegue men’t the choir. An intent lover frets to mourn’e the cairne,
solid vout made. No hidst thine valid code. The zeuge got an aille ov fallen torns, the maitte lunne scores,
ante let rende the moists, varun plite, the mifft mounds to aquine saints.

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