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NOT EVERYONE ALL AT ONCE |
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by Charles Carreon Each day uniquely troubled, Each night a special woe, Each step the earth does tremble, In every grasp a seed is sown. This fertile field, abundantly produces fruit according to the nature of the seed. We farmers till according to our nature, harvest in keeping with our ways. Now, getting on, with money, gold and scrip in hand, and heavy grip upon the land, Raise stones, inscribe them carefully, All in their way, Variations on an epitaph. Last words, anyone?
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