The librarian with gnosis is freed
It is through will his mind acquires speed
for sight, he may see past the void of foresight
The first to know his candle will die in the breeze of night

The gardener knows he owes none to no one
His work satiates the desires some shun
He huddles about his fire, his thoughts given form by wires of dexterity
As he tries to break the wind, it breaks him in twain
His fire extinguished, his work in vain

The hunter makes his bravoure known through pride
He thinks to endure the cold, confidant his stride
But he knows not the trail he treads
He trips, his eyes agaze on the blaze on the forest floor as his lantern shattered
Immobile, his last thoughts are vile and of dread

The mother sees all that fails
Her weathered roots not moot to the chill that bent the rills and enclosed the hearth
For she sleeps, and the world is in dearth of life.

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