Flight of the Travellers

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Under the shade of the Tricklewood tree
On the banks of the old Lanimar
Counting the birds as they launch from the rocks
For their journeys both near and so far.

Shall I wait here until next year at spring
I know that I must and I will
To count the distant travellers as they’re homing back in
It’s their home; they must know that I’m waiting here still.

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