The arrow spins around atop the 

Lighthouse point- 

Waves crash and the green is like the color on a irish morning

"Who is to desern the wind......

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the crow feathers stretch across her  pointer and the she   forgets to stop at any direction

Birds begin the praise of the morning

For even they know

"A greater than solomon is here......

And the moon isn't far behind, I leave it as I walk uphill towards the east-  as I know not to keep my eyes on what will soon disappear-and the waiting, is breath taking....

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