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Literature Text
Demeter tied a red cloak around her daughter’s shoulders
And watched her go;
Young hips swaying,
Sweet pink lips parted joyously.
If, perhaps, Demeter had known
She would never have consented.
There are flowers to be picked, Mama.
The wrath of a mother bereft is more fearsome than Cerberus.
And though it is an old grudge now,
It is still potent.
And watched her go;
Young hips swaying,
Sweet pink lips parted joyously.
If, perhaps, Demeter had known
She would never have consented.
There are flowers to be picked, Mama.
The wrath of a mother bereft is more fearsome than Cerberus.
And though it is an old grudge now,
It is still potent.
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