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I have a name, but it isn't my name. My face shows signs of age. I always mean the same thing, no matter what I say. I'm born in mourning, and I last 'til the end of days. Men plant me, but I never grow. They run from me, but I never move. They look at me and see their future, rotting in the fields where I bloom. What am I?
Did you know the answer?