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ArtistThe dust motes dance in sunlit streams, Across the floor, a hazy dream. These creaking bones, this weary frame, Remember joys, remember shame. My knitting needles, long since still, Lie cold and quiet on the sill. The threads of life, once bright and bold, Now frayed and thin, a story told.
The dust motes dance in sunlit streams,
Across the floor, a hazy dream.
These creaking bones, this weary frame,
Remember joys, remember shame.
My knitting needles, long since still,
Lie cold and quiet on the sill.
The threads of life, once bright and bold,
Now frayed and thin, a story told.