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The dirty snow on the side of the road
Is so completely unacceptable.
For even though it was a snowplow load
It will become at least susceptible
To the instrument that always brings change
And understanding to the wounded heart.
The trickle of time does wonders so strange
In working slow with neither stop nor start.
For frozen beige will again fall virgin snow,
Or from the purest of mountain streams flow.

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