No one soul is like another, 

In consideration or colour,

In movement or thought.
The disease of spirit that covers

Our face and impregnates our dream,

Can only be fought 
With deep and flesh grown faith,

A higher purpose, moulded from grains of sand,

From which we are born 

and to whom we return.
For those that never sense this love,

Though they may possess

the entirety of man,

They will never understand,
The happiness of nothing,

Save sandalwood, rainfall

And the faint melodic breath of sea.



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