Seasons rise and then fall. Days appear on the horizon and draw closer. Although, before you can take them into your hand, and begin to shape them around you, they have gone, each one taken on the wind, far out of your reach, never to return.
You can turn, there high on your hill of remembering, to look back over that landscape of former days. Seeing it all now spread out far below and out of reach, you know no matter how you try to run down your hill towards those former days they will always be beyond anything you can do to touch them once again.
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