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I see you,
checking out the fabric of life,
like a leaf turned over,
and over indeed,
but new it will never be,
once fallen from the tree,
it will slowly float and drift,
sometimes at the very feet,
sometimes, with a gust of wind,
picked up and taken,
on a voyage like a vagabond,
across patches of green,
knowing not fate’s plan,
a mere toy wandering,
as far as the wind is willing,
just another vagabond riding,
beyond its Apple tree.