From the recuperating room

From the recuperating room.

 

 

Not words of lament

It is of imagination a filament,

 

Even the mighty Oak

Needs the sun to soak,

 

Every man’s foe

Is a mind of woe,

 

It is to this effect

That the illness affect,

 

Time to rise

Hence need to prise,

 

From a word of muse

I like to choose,

 

Not a heart wry

Nor the need to cry.

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