I was given this poem by a friend.
What have the blue skies looked down on, what have these high hills seen?
Where has the old wind wandered, before it is reborn young and clean?
The clouds have poured a thousand times, but I wonder whether not each sunset sees,
an evening as young and new as the sky, when it bends low touch the trees.
What have the blue skies looked down on, what have these high hills seen?
Where has the old wind wandered, before it is reborn young and clean?
The clouds have poured a thousand times, but I wonder whether not each sunset sees,
an evening as young and new as the sky, when it bends low touch the trees.
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