Donkey of Each Night
Starved, the wild donkey of each night
Still carries so incredible much light,
On his back, in old tattered sacks,
With sweat dreams of hay stacks;
Sometimes, they hard tempt him to stop
But, never had he turned his head to crop.
Many wonder how he can resist a day.
But, in a hurry he goes on his way
Making a path to the old mountain:
His eyes, like a summer-dried fountain,
Rest in the shadow, while on his back
The light is still flowing from the sack.
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