The morning crispness has returned the grain is laid in the
fields the sun has begun to loiter upon its path. The golden haze of summers
end is upon us. To the harvest do the sickles fall the slaughter of the prime,
the muses of spring lay in the memory of the frost of the fields.
Cold can the delivery of the dream be if not reaped in time.
Go forth upon the adventure least your work become the path of another’s steps.
For the stewards of land know the till of spring begins in the fall.
Alas it is your story not mine, so it is that I shall celebrate
this day of the memory of mine.
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