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..I see a slate not very far from where I stand, A slate, wiped clean With only some blots of history dotting its borders.

These cataclysms are cosmic signs. The battles below the universe, The death of soul, the decay of flesh All harbingers of a planned decimation.

Someone up there is designing a new beginning. He will make strokes on a fresh slate, with a white chalk drawing a new horizon, A new landscape, A new portrait of mankind.

Right now, He is erasing the errors He made the first time around. With fires, floods and man-slaughter mopping up us all. In swathes, in multiples cleaning His slate, completing an apocalypse…

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…I am the kind of wanderer who stops to smell the wild flowers on the boughs and feel the moss on the bark The kind of wanderer Who dips her feet in the stream And tosses droplets in the air The


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