Poetry
The child is the father
of the man, a motto
of the world at a time
a love of it before
and even since a time
past and immemorial
one thing to be recalled
a memory of how
such life went through the row
witting and changing as
if enough is the locale
whose glowing light is it
recall that there were echoes
that nothing is strange but
perhaps, a new way or
if it is let well through
sound of sweet melody.
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