One must not stand resolute
Nor take root
Upon this cold clay
Over which we tread.
One must move,
Travel,
Allow the winds to carry you
Close to its bosom
To lands unseen,
Possibilities unknown
Like the seeds
Fallen fresh from trees.
One cannot see the many faces of God
From but one vantage point
Nor see eternity
Before first gathering
All the pieces of fractured immortality.
We are nomads
Destined to roam
Seeking spiritual nourishment
Through barren deserts
Rippling with scorching tides
Of shifting sands
That conceal those that failed
And fell to Time
Long since forgotten
Save by whispers still echoed
By those blessed winds.
When one fails to continue
That quest called Life
And takes root
He goes rigid,
Gray,
And crumbles upon the beach
Of that unfathomable sea
Called the horizon.

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