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Frailty yet strength, as that of Lot.
Our need for such endurance is unknown.
The stench of perspiration, the aroma of affection,
The sight so true, yet such a lie.
It is as the burden of Christian, on a Journey, Home.
There is a sign of pure life,
in the greenness of weak shrubs surrounding the queen of the valley.
Are the twigs to keep her warm tonight,
perhaps keep her head covered,
from the rain, the clouds promise?
Her clothing has one use;
hiding the toil her circumstances take on her feeble body.
No hue is definite,
because of the blur, worldview quickly creates.
T’is but a finger print of strife.
So small among us, but again, so much to signify.
From but a glance, many say we have so much.
Do we really?