But say the child had not choosen,
not for the wove that shed fleece,
not the twine shackling kites on nostalgic griss,
Even that so far and banished of it all except a totem,
Refusal shakes when oppurtunity coerce tiny gambles of fantasy's wager,
for venturing oppurtunity hastens on auborn gallop.
He grows of what seen which too remains a hearing issue,
That not one raven lied, not one, not one.
But the child hath not done.
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