Up on the top of a hill
With a windy, narrow road,
Sits a little cemetery,
It's residents always home.
In the middle of this resting place,
A girl sits by a grave.
Unmarked and with no flowers,
Is where she spends her days.
It's unknown who is buried there
Or how long it has been.
All she knows is when she dies,
She'll have a gravestone just like them.

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