I saw a little pheasant, sitting by a tree, I asked the little pheasants what was troubling he....
“every day I serenade the morning sun. Thanking him for letting me know the days begun. But each day he runs away back to the hills. The hills who hide him, disguise him demise him. They cover his nakedness with a cloth of darkness and they tease and torture the world with glimmering stars, and icy winds.”
...And I left the little pheasant sitting by the tree, because he spoke ill of the hills who everyday gave a sun to me.
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