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The roof tiles shriek, torn by an invisible hand, Salt-cracked windows weep for the drowning land. Here, there is no hope—only the splintered wood, The wreckage of dreams where the garden once stood.
The roof tiles shriek, torn by an invisible hand, Salt-cracked windows weep for the drowning land. Here, there is no hope—only the splintered wood, The wreckage of dreams where the garden once stood.
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