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Sometimes I consider |
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my pace |
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I'm reminded of a train |
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gathering speed |
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for the climb to the pass; |
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In whose shadow it already lies |
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A small metal dragon |
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approaching the ever-present ascending rise |
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To the Seventh Moutain. |
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Reelin' and snakin' and leapin' it seems |
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Like it wants to come loose |
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from it's path cast in iron; |
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But you can't slow down now |
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As the Earth has presented |
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a new crest to reach |
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Without barely a rest |
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from the last one. |
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And you wonder |
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just what lies beyond |
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Though you've been there before |
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And forget about |
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the effort and the strain; |
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Always ascending, |
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each yard as a mile |
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To the never ending pull |
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of the steepening grade |
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that's before you. |
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A valley, a forest, |
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a desert, a stream, |
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With an over-sized bridge |
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for the trickle there beneath; |
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You remember the torrent |
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it turned to last Spring, |
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From the snow's melting fast, |
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And the river it became |
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in the summer. |
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Perhaps it is ruin |
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from a fire that has scorched it |
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So badly that nothing |
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will grow without rain; |
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To wash away the blackened soil |
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Now useless 'til called upon again |
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In a future as distant and far away |
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as the next range of mountains. |
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So take it as far |
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as you see and beyond |
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With eyes you don't use enough |
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to gather up strength; |
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As Thoroughfare Gap |
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What awaits is whatever you see |
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When you get there |
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or even before; |
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It's no matter. |
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No distance. |
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It's the ride. |