The still waters flow still,
lions pausing to drink growled
at a young buck approaching water at will
having been heard as though howled & scowled.
The once leafy tree now serves as a pole,
voices are quited previously loud
what happens to man's soul
when such wanders over a cloud?
A lost treasure is seldom returned,
in silence sound is bound,
no picking has been discerned
in arching a straight line into a circle round.
Man's spirit passed on's referred to as belated,
corn gold foerever loses the green
in progress loss is abated,
the hidden's not to be seen.
There's distiction between are and were,
bad is realised in absence of good,
in perpetual motion what's here's now there
and of necessity to ignite fire would use good wood.
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