
Aye, aye, to the disheartness of men, we shall see it unfold, and make our way. For in this heart's pain we may fare ill, and in such state thus we must move. For love is in short not a thing, but all that holds us still and hard. The will of the soul seeks its rest, the life of the man finds itself. But in our case it's hard to find, and now and then we lose sight of him.
Aye, aye, that's the thing, the disheartness of men; we see it unfold, and make our way. For in this heart's pain we may fare ill, and in such state thus we must move. For love is in short not a thing, but all that holds us still and hard.
Aye, aye, to the disheartness of men, we shall see it unfold, and make our way. For in this heart's pain we may fare ill, and in such state thus we must move. For love is in short not a thing, but all that holds us still and hard.
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