Though Winter Come, Thy Will Be Done
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Though winter come, thy will be done,
For time must have an end,
And death must serve the wanderer
Who worships but the wind.
The being of a being is
Beyond all space and time.
And yet . . . and yet each being is
A moment with a name.
Ah, wanderer! Do not fear
The loss of joy and pain.
nothingness is nothing
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