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The longer we walk through the flames of the fire,
The more clothes we will shed, and the more we'll perspire,
For beginning with Spring all the seasons will end
With the trauma of Winter; which we can't comprehend.
For the snowman, the memory, melts into the ground;
Gone without trace, without movement and sound.
Spring is the growing; the Summer the joy;
Autumn the withering to allow the freeze to deploy
To kill off the useless, the frail and the old
With its merciful passion that is frigid and cold.
We do not have time to grizzle and moan,
To think of ourselves as existing alone.
We only have time to make the best of our lot
Lest we lose but a moment of the life we have got.
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