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A Lonely Wanderer
Alone he walking through the river side,
Never he turned back, to be a coward;
With head held high, against the wind,
And rest of world, he never bothered.
He dare to dream for something high,
But never he find that in his sky;
Seems to be wet always his eye,
Still dark and deep like a spy;
He passed rivers with steaming blood,
And crossed valleys that almost nude;
Himself floating like wood in flood,
Or he may drenched in sunny sand;
Ever he started or stopped any?
Or could he stop his endless journey?