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A speck too small to catch the eye draws out a line across the sky;
A flash of silver now and then is all we see of passing men;
Men whose passage leaves behind a message written on the wind.
But ere the plane can cross the sky the trail begins to spread and die.
The monuments of which we're proud are fragile as this web of cloud;
Our lives are just a passing by, a vapour trail across the sky.
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