Freedom
Regrets strung across the rope of half a lifetime—
I hang upon it the rising ache of lingering sorrow.
The courage to gently cure an unready death
burns brighter than a freshly opened peony.
A quiet wind, bearing seasoned migratory birds,
waves farewell to sixty distant peaks.
It offers a cup brimming with the time to come,
and with a steady gaze, says: now, walk your own way.
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