The Hill

How easy to loose the plot.
The fire burns hot
And the hand
Obeying not sense’s command
Touches the burning coal.
The soul
Pulls back
But oft we lack
The will
To climb the hill
To a cloudless place
Where the sun’s face
Banishes the dark
And tears of joy start
To fall.
We recall
The path of right
And struggle against the night.

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