The early morning mist hangs smoky, low
as, over the sleeping river valley, where
the shimmering waters skip and flow,
the eastern sky summons the day.
The scorching sphere that holds the key to time
rises from the nadir to the summit,
the peak of it's relentless climb.
Then once again descends below.
Man's time on earth is measured by each day.
His value determined by the route he takes.
All that I ask - 'may I not stray
but follow in His chosen path'.
As testament to what my spirit's worth
when I look back on what my life has been,
when mortal coil departs this earth
let no one say 'He never lived'.
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