One hundred days ago I did not regard thee
As any more than an unbloomed flower
That all too soon would burst into bloom
Then all too soon would wither and die
The flower of hope would be but a memory
The flower would be no more
Yet today I cannot regard thee as the hopeless flower of hope
For in the bloom that has burst forth
Lies the seed of real hope and life
And the blights and cancers of the unreal world shall never wither
The bloom that is thee.
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