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I have a story One that not many know A boy came home, and he felt alone He poured a drink, like he always did Glass of red wine, the best quality A crimson one, an endless source One too precious for drinking But he poured too much, tho willingly He laid in his bed, he felt at peace And the line, on the porcelain And the breath, that now slows down And the mind that fades, now it has no light The boy now sleeps, an eternal night