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The Horn That Is So Difficult to Play The horn that is so difficult to play, that always sounds lonely, calls now. It is the hunter’s horn that, sad from any forest, calls the fall of heroes, the last thrust the lake arm flourished toward the west when down dropped gold and crimson to their ash. Where are the dark robed maidens who will take these rusted, sauce-panned soldiers to their rest? The forest lies in tatters. Day equals night. This art which is so difficult to play, calls now, and will sound lonely. The Poetry of M. Travis Lane / 33 ...

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