Title: Optional

Text: As slowly as the ripening fruit - fertile, detached, and always spent, falls but does not exhaust the root - so all the poem is, can give, grows in me to become the song, made so and rooted by love. Now there is time and Time is young. O, in this single hour I live all of myself and do not move. I, the pursued, who madly ran, stand still, stand still, and stop the sun! Each paragraph will be a test.

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