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    My days whisk by swifter than the shuttle in a weaver’s loom—
        back and forth, and back and forth—
        and then they come to their hopeless end.
    My life, remember, is just a breath;
        in death no more good will reach my eye.
    Whoever sees me now, will not for long;
        you’ll look for me, but I’ll be gone.
    As clouds thin and finally vanish,
        so it is when people enter the land of the dead.
    Never will they come back up.
10     Never will they return to their homes
        or will the place they lived recognize them anymore.

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