Memories of a distant whisper,
converge with my garden's breeze.
Towards the stars above the white Throne,
I am the hawk that flies alone.
I left flowers everywhere I've been,
plenty have wilted but some still bloom.
Their scent is all that is left,
of joyful times and tearful smiles.
Memories of a distant whisper,
converge with my garden's breeze.
As I hover towards my white Throne,
I am the hawk that flies alone.
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