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Awake! arise! the hour is late!
Angels are knocking at thy door!
They are in haste and cannot wait,
And once departed come no more.

Awake! arise! the athlete’s arm
Loses its strength by too much rest;
The fallow land, the untilled farm
Produces only weeds at best.
Our fuming sun, atop our sight
Released a breath of love today
Now drenched with light, we understand
And thus, to not forget, we pray

Tonight, I turn my head up high
And tune my ears to words unsaid
For nature carries strength with stillness
Sweetly by the riverbed

Warring storms have rattled branches
Striking hard upon our home
But never will they shake the roots
That show us deeply how we’ve grown

And “Om” is heard beneath a flood
Of hollow hate and daunting doubt
But gracefully, all will be dry
Beneath the pain, our tree will sprout

— The End —