January 29th, 2006
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Leaving on a Jet Plane
Times roll and companions depart, to a distant country will my heart fly while my body remains behind. Can I break free? Will I soar? This a year with decreased luck but belief in my own two hands. To be a builder, or a king; no a pauper, but not one who begs but one who finds his own small fortune in peace. To the river I will go fishing; to make a boat and to sail, down to the river but a raft, a stream running to the open sea. With the breath of dead winter at my back, I’ll find clear waters and kingdoms ahead.
