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If all the stars were paper
and all the space was ink,
and if I had forever
the time for which to think;
then never would the stars suffice,
and n'er would spread the ink,
to tell the story of my love
and what I came to drink.

And even if the words were there
to shed a little light
among the existential gloom
of those in troubled flight,
would that amount to giving
what is not mine to give,
or can the power of the word
encourage them to live ?

A little learning is a dangerous thing,
or so it has been said;
but if you do not give it now,
then you cannot when you're dead !
And for what purpose then I ask
is freedom given for ?
The choice is mine,
at least for now,
to give them something more:
to tell them of from whence they came,
and to whither they return;
for the end is the beginning -
and so much there is to learn !

And never did the ancients
of that mystic thread through time,
describe the realm of paradise -

So I'll make that project mine !

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