On a thick syrup mountain
I see brambles roll by
and through an amber haze
I love them for what they are,
but I will not trade bodies with them.
Later, ants take away the honey
leaving only what is dry of me,
and I become a bramble.
Here, today, the world
it is evaporating, and for that,
I walk with the wizened
but I will not trade bodies with them.
When I am gone
I will wish that I had.
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