the mountain how high
still needs the coolness of
dew glistening upon a leaf
of morning,
the ocean how wide and blue
still needs the song of fountains
from the tributaries of rivers
from far
the meaning of the desert's life
still clings upon the moon
above the cactus where a frail
violet flower still blooms,
my slate of paper though white and pure
still needs the grace of your scribblings
for words to grow and give it
our story for the world to read....
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