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The squeal

Standing on the crest of my life Reached with punch and some fire Wonder I still, what the squeal Of the gate closing be like Carrying as it might be A message lurking That the years of indulgence Of running as free as a deer On the highlands boundless Of thoughts and abstraction And of diligence and sweat Had run out of steam To be never refired again As in time would stop by The Retirement, To take its final call.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2019




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