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poetry

Be not gentle breeze come morning,
be not the leaf that falls tonight.
Be fire, I tell you, my faltering friend.
Nothing you do will alter the end,
but it will alter the journey.
Descend not with grace, fall not.
If they rip off your wings, crash down on them.
And never let it be said
that one person cannot blind
Fate’s eye, in the oncoming storm.