Don’t complain like gulls one-legged beaks agape the shoreline being eaten slowly; don’t arc and bank and circle waiting ships laden slipping along the horizon. There are children running on the seal-skin sand skipping stones leaping high above the waves light with timelessness. Though it be winter, run headlong into the coming waves let your skin catch fire and burn away your fret that years will make you cragged, old man. Time will not bend you if you run at it arse bare and dive deep into its icy embrace. Roll around in there and kick and thresh as the weed reaches out to tangle you down. Without the risk you are with the gulls all dull eyed and frightened. With it all the gold that Croesus gathered waits cresting with the waves.


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