From when wilt thou return
from the mountain dews?
From those high peaks that rub my imagination through.
Where oft doth thou disappear
from a fragile trail of foot prints that reappear?
From where the frantic cries of the reaper submerge dies.
What hath thou so wonderfully witnessed
from a town so tinsel lies?
From where the condemnation forked displayed.
When thou art gone
for what must I still low lie?
From whereever, tell me how, tell me now, tell me why?
Bottomline: “The most terrible poverty is loneliness, and the feeling of being unloved.” Mother Teresa
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