Forthwith in marches he came,
Astound by long he swept,
For not his light did he leap,
By walking once to fame;

Indeed ’twas not the sound he made,
At last did not wait to call,
Somehow grieved not his losses bade,
As now slowly walks to fall;

For he his life turn to right
Listens closely and unwinds,
But this in his lesson does write
Painful memories to mind;

Looks back a distant shadow,
Beckoning his return,
Closes his eyes to wallow
The spectre he did spurn;

As now he tells the tale,
Whence not my thoughts be made,
If not for life so pale,
Though I continue to fade;

I shall walk to the end,
Nor water splashes me disturb,
Shall walk still to the end,
‘Tis not the water me disturb;

That now I shall look there,
The road ahead by mind,
Now walks me distant here,
Through once myself shall find.

Life, Poetry, Works
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