A gray old man would hike his way to the top of the hill
Before dawn, he would wake just to witness the rise of graceful sight.
Every step and tense of muscle,
Caused pain that slowly ignites.
Every drop of sweat revealed his struggle
But endured the tenacious grip of plight.
For two thousand, one hundred ninety days
He held his countenance all to meet the dawn of golden rays.
While the rest of the world still in deep slumber,
The whistling of a kettle could be heard at the early hour.
As he took the first step of his last morning
Glistening grass caught his nimble falling.
As the earth slowly began to embrace his body
He thought, “My o my, what fine beauty it is down here.
I wish I had noticed it much sooner.”
At his last breath, the old man left the world peacefully.
He did not tire nor perspire,
But simply faded away with eyes glued to the lilac streaks in the tranquil horizon
He felt the gentle kiss of sunrise he never thought he would meet
At the bottom of the hill.
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