An idea that has gone unseized
Is a forest without any trees.
It exists as a ghost
With no one to host
Lost like a breath to the breeze.
An idea that rests in the hand
Is a seed to be sown in the land.
As a sprout it will grow
With a spark melting snow
Shone brightly from your lantern of gold.
Soon trees will dawn
Bark thick and of brawn
A forest built to be old.
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Most active day: January 6th, 2026 • 0 contributions
Most active week: Dec 15–Dec 21 • 2 contributions