Love is not rootless,
though it drifts through air,
Nor chained to clay,
though bodies wane and wear.
It takes the shape of mist
on Slieve Donard's brow,
Rising from grief,
and more than mortal now.
#vss365
though it drifts through air,
Nor chained to clay,
though bodies wane and wear.
It takes the shape of mist
on Slieve Donard's brow,
Rising from grief,
and more than mortal now.
#vss365
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