The compass spins, a restless silver eye,
Beneath a sky where clouds drift aimlessly by.
We stand at junctions, paths obscured from sight,
And wonder which direction holds the light.
The wind, unseen, a phantom on the breeze,
Carries the rustling secrets of the trees.
It bends the grasses, whispers through the grain,
A language spoken yet we strive in vain
To truly...
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