Running on a wondering spree,
The constellations rise
The grandfather clock strikes three
The contemplatives devise
Under the convex lens, my sorrow, my glee
The lush shrubs sleep on the lea
Under a sky, under other skies
Do I hold my soil, or must I flee?
What stack of shapes meet the eyes?
I know nothing about me, I know nothing about me.
- facebook: Sambit's Facebook profile
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