Think how a moment’s swipe of hail
Turns a season’s yield to naught;
So does a word of mean intent
Drill a hole in a steadfast heart.
What use an edifice of success,
With zero at the centre,
That tramples frolicking burgeonings
Into a perpetual winter
Laced with icicles of hate,
And envy’s tortured lack;
Better a glimmer of empathy
Replete as almanac.
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