The soul's patina, etched by days,
Resembles all nature's displays.
Spied close, it seems a work of flaws,
A crisscross, whose haphazard cause,
At discrete moments, can't be known,
Like motes perturbed when light is shone.
Yet, if the eye should draw away
A lifetime's distance, that moiré
Of mixing patterns soon recedes
To Fate, mixing its subtle redes.
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