The toil of eleven years
far into the twelfth
the forest appears
Sometimes seeming
as a treasure isle
sometimes a brooding
and festering pile
I'm so far in the trees
I can't even see it
However much I said
I would bring it, and be it
And things I put off
till the hammer was whirring
the thick and long-
neglected pot I keep stirring
Is it pleasing? are you
not entertained
Will you curse and shake
your fist for being detained
dare I dream
one day you might stand up
maybe a million
and raising a hand up
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