Fortune may narrate, the rhyme of time,
Way back home one has to go.
But the folds never ends,
On the go and onto the home.
Spikes may hurtle, as they are made to,
The trough may dry, as it has to, one day.
But feet shall find a way,
Onto the force and onto the method.
As one may fall, as one has to,
The others may rise, as one ought to,
But doors shall crush,
Onto the rotten, and onto the spoiled.
Never look back, never on your part,
Your prestige, your style is your own.
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