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Staring at the thriving red
In my fields of frozen blight
I find myself so ignorant
Of worlds past dire white
Always have I known this place
With no sense of location
Lost as one could ever be:
Without a destination
But now, this man lies freshly dead
Whom I have never seen
And though my core’s grown crude and cold
My mind’s grown quick and keen
It’s clear, he had not stayed here long,
His face still wore a grin.
But to walk in a man’s footsteps was
To see where he had been
Armed with an intent,
A purpose, and a need,
I found myself that springtime place,
The longing to succeed.
The footsteps of that stranger,
Those which set me free.
If he had not have lost his way,
This place I’d never be.
I thank this hero; thank the dead
Of his deed he is unknowing.
In truth, I’ve seen the sky before,
But only when it’s snowing.
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