FREEDOM
It's the sauce of a man that
makes the spice. Whittled to a
time of his own, space and locus
understood - 'to be, or not...' questions
nothing but the operation. The river that
runs and the woods that move, all flavor
the feeling of Mankind's mood. On the horizon
bleakly sunning, all doubt and reason do I see;
and in shackles, oh poor Liberty.
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