has worn away my soul.
It stings my face and gnaws my hands
and burns my eyes to tears.
Wiser men than me have said
that Fate's a random bowl
of bitter herbs and sweetest dreams
with sorrows, hopes and fears.
Long years this mistral weathered me.
Long seasons felt its bite.
Long days I wished that Zephyrus
would abandon me at night.
Joyous the lark not buffeted.
Carefree the robin vernal.
But freer still the eagle
soaring upon the thermal!
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