Born to make mistakes, they say.
A truth that settles like dust
on the edges of our triumphs.
Not a decree of doom,
but an echo in the chambers of learning.
Each stumble, a language spoken
by the clumsy feet of growth.
A grammar etched in scars,
visible only to the touch of memory.
We are not born flawless,
but with a boundless capacity
to redraw...
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