Bitter and cold is a man with no friends.
He spends time with his ghosts,
Whatever kind they may be
And lives hardly, to no great ends.
But full and unhurried is one with a friend.
No matter his age
The winds will blow,
Despite all, he will bend.
Time upon time a forest may grow,
And sprigs of saplings will grow very slow,
Once planted by chance…
Merely asking to know
How one could grow.
So truly, truly a root takes hold…
Among the trees,
Among the ghosts,
And lo, becomes like a tree, like a ghost….
Giving shade where shade could be had,
From roots so deep in common soil,
Ever present and tall,
With his friends to help him through it all.
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