uninterrupted by the ways of men,
our little victories and sad defeats
within whose grasp the spirit meets
the limits that all flesh must find
in life, which being neither kind
nor even unkind, passes as it must,
this earth to earth and dust to dust,
through sacred rituals and these rites
of passage through the faded light’s
remembrance of our highs and lows,
our commonplace, our joys and woes.
But spin it does for each new dawn
while we left here, look up, move on.
.
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