The season turns again.
The year ends.
Some are born into
An unknown world,
Others round the bends
Whose cul-de-sacs close
The roads to regrets and amends.
Yet, the tired bone
Must live on
To the time of the ash,
Contending as if old age
Could still encash
From a hollowed life
Particles of knowledge
Unavailable to the all-knowing brash.
Let not a terminated future
Draw breath from the past,
But leave the pupils open
To an effulgent vision
That may last
Beyond the going hence.
At the moment of going,
The cul de sac may open to something vast.
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