In the s, a writer was researching legends and folklore.
By the time anyone realized what was happening, that the crooked man was real, it was already too late.
Beside this funny pair of feet, With small and sturdy hand, You wrote your own initials as You write them in the sand.
You will see my tiny footprints, in the rustle of the leaves.
Loved this poem.
Never fall in love my friend, You'll see it doesnt pay, It isn't worth the heartache it causes on the way.
And the grave is not the goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
I want to be the softness that induces you to trust.
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And, departing, leave behind us footprints on the sands of time.