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A Spinning Top
I see the world as a child's toy,
 A spinning top that's going round.
 I think I see a hand spinning it,
 But that starts to get too profound.
 
 I see the world as a mold of clay;
 I pretend my steps leave a print.
 Then I think about how sad it is,
 That I had barely made a hint.
 
 If I looked at that clay earth today,
 Would a mere speck be marked by me?
 Would I have effected earth today
 In the least, the smallest, degree?
 
 And in that spinning top that's our world,
 What do I have - power? control?
 I'm a speck of dust, a particle,
 A nothing compared to the whole.
 
 I cannot hold back the spinning top,
 I cannot even dent the clay.
 I'm infinitesimal, I'm minute...
 I'm learning that that is okay.

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