New fields I walk through. New pathways I trod.
On the threshold of the day, we sit and confer in murmurs. Which way? Which new way will be ours?
Even after all these years, each day, a new day.
(Letter #3,766)
New fields I walk through. New pathways I trod.
On the threshold of the day, we sit and confer in murmurs. Which way? Which new way will be ours?
Even after all these years, each day, a new day.
(Letter #3,766)