Little Boy

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He runs in mad frenzy, distressed and distraught, 
Asking himself, why nobody bought.
He gallops and grinds and pushes his horse,
Never daring to stop and look off-course.

He stomps through the woods in soldier-like boots
From tree to tree and bush to bush,
Till night falls dark, a voice says shush,
As he trips on an oak’s majestic roots.

There he lies, now dazed and still,
The pain, the strain is at its will,
It runs along its course of joy,
And says to him: “you foolish boy!”

It tells him in no little words
That he who strains is not who gains
But that the masters in their suite,
Play their game, delight and sweet.

They love their craft, they love their art,
They see the stars that light the woods,
And take the steps that no one took
And anyone who dares to look,
Can see the brightness in their heart.

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