It's not pining, it's passed on. This Arafat is no more. It has ceased to be. It's expired and gone to meet its maker. This is a late Arafat. It's a stiff. Bereft of life, it rests in peace. If you hadn't nailed it to the perch, it would be pushing up the daisies. It's rung down the curtain, shuffled off this mortal coil and joined the bleedin'
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