Facing the destination of north,
My mind is in mirth,
The Direction is aptly worth,
To get rid of all these dirt.
The new attire of silky soft,
Millions of miles of travel afloat,
When stripe away this torn rug,
I may escape from the cage of tarts.
The duties have to be done,
The struggles have to be won,
The desires have to be neutralized,
when one chooses to face the north.
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