my future is wide and blank and massive,
kind of like my present, trapped in nature
where the snow conquers all but falls passive:
When it all melts, those great nymphs will regress
and settle at their pond, with quivering
banks and glittering ripples, and caress
their golden threads hellbent on delivering:
But don't deliver, my glorious nymphs!
I want to break my thread and patch my own
heart. Why can't I sit and gaze at the lymphs
that flow from those streams in which gods have flown?:
Can I make my own fate, read my own pact?
I'll save this sparse race from dying in tact.
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