Were life an everlasting,

if seasons never came,

if the sky would fall to earth,

the people are brittle and lame.

When angels call on prophets,

heralding their birth,

would a saviour really save us,

or be a sense of mirth.

If life were always joyful,

always blissful and in peace,

never would we ask for more,

learn more,

or want,

or strive,

we would be un-human,

we would be a living dead.

We would never write a poem,

to show the beauty we see,

our eyes searching for a truth,

our minds would not be free.

The End

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