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Flightless on the vine,
Not soaring as he should.
His wings weighed with trail of time,
The feathers carved in wood.
The hands mark an hour of ten past ten
How many eyes have watched in vain?
The value of the second hand
A life? A child? The sun? The rain?
Do not let time defiantly be a captor
But be captured in what it lets linger
The cuckoo's wings beat not through the air
But YOUR feathers are not timber
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We'll never be as young as we are right now
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