I still carry the burthen of my swarm,
Thus decieved, still flying towards north.
A newborn bird is born upon these skies, in motion, in flight.
Again decieved, again relieved, again in stillness, tonight.
This misbegotten moonlight flit revealed deception,
As we were in motion, in flight.
Flanked by snowstorm, like a verloren hoop,
We art still flying towards north.

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