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Perched atop the edge of this hill
The rugged valley below me
I see the trail left behind
In the misty woodlands of my memory.

The woods are dark and silent here,
The breeze is strong and chilly.
The crimson sun is slowly setting
In the misty woodlands of my memory.

A solitary figure standing away
From wonted rush and frenzy,
I think of what is lost and buried
In the misty woodlands of my memory.

The climb upwards saw many a face,
Now most are blurred and hazy.
Withered away, they lie somewhere
In the misty woodlands of my memory.

The journey began as a cold race
– A quest for promised glory.
I ran my best to beat the rest
In the misty woodlands of my memory.

Pausing was losing, so I believed
Then how could I stop and tarry?
I pursued the chase with fervor and pace
In the misty woodlands of my memory.

With time did pass many a year,
With time did change the scenery
While I was on a solemn march
In the misty woodlands of my memory.

I look up at the peak so far
Only half way through the story
– A story that was once so weaved
In the misty woodlands of my memory.

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