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A Rock in the Puddle

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The mountains possess a menacing tone,
The leaves riffle, the old tree groans,
The sea sighs with every passing wave,
But man cannot wait to dig his own grave.
Blind men wake to the morning sun,
Only to see its light undone.
But a mere ripple in a water still,
Pen to paper, they forge their will.
Every path you take and every road you follow,
If your heart compels, then you will fly tomorrow,
And if your search for the pot of gold proves weary,
Do not keep yourself sick and dreary, but rather well and merry.





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