“History Is To Be”

Is constantly written.

Without direction,
We fall victims
To the stillness
Of indecision;

With it,
An inner compass
Conducts a symphony
To life’s pulsing rhythm.

Our path is trapped,
Ending up
An empty scribble;
The patience
Of perseverance
To resolve
Death’s riddle:
“What steadily comes that’s already gone?”
Gives birth
To the sincere handwriting
Of eternal wisdom:

“A river’s grandeur attests to the greatness of its source.”

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