Swirling the flattened copper pan of life,
Turning round & round, removing all
strife,
Looking out for that piece of hunted gold,
That lonesome nugget, in this world so cold.
Panning for that illusive & often lost
friend,
Within the pan of dross & within every
bend,
In dust, searching that word & friendly
smile,
Always seeking, walking that extra long mile.
Strangers are merely friends waiting to be met,
At the bottom of the pan, when the grit has
set,
Panning through fool´s gold, for a very special
one,
That nugget of gold, that shimmers in life´s
sun.
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