50 lines
1.7 KiB
Standard ML
50 lines
1.7 KiB
Standard ML
David Redish
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THE WANDERER
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He wandered, he wondered, and he thought.
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He wandered through the streets he knew so well;
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Yet still he had never been here.
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He was wandering across the world.
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He wandered, he wondered, and he thought.
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He wandered through the dark dismal world;
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An old, rotting backpack on his back.
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An even older, rotting hobo's sack over his shoulder.
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Even the clouds seemed sad, as if they too knew his sorrow.
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They moved across the sun, blotting out his only hope of happiness.
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He wandered, he wondered, and he thought.
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He wandered past houses, red, white, even a few strange colors,
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Yet all were dull, as if they had lost their brightness.
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They were all dead, all of them;
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Just as everyone inside them was dead.
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He wandered, he wondered, and he thought.
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He wondered if the world would ever be as it was before he started
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wandering.
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What was the world like before he started wandering?
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He couldn't remember.
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All he knew was that there were others then.
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More people than the one he knew:
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Himself.
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He wandered, he wondered, and he thought.
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He wondered if there would ever be any more people;
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He was begining to hate trees and plants.
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All he ever saw was plant life.
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He wondered if he had truly ever seen anything besides this.
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He wandered, he wondered, and he thought.
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He thought about what the world would be like.
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After he had changed it.
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After he had found what he was looking for.
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He wanders, he wonders, and he thinks.
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Across the world.
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Searching,
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Searching,
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Searching...
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