A minute goes past,
a revolution is made.
I observe the ticking hand
moving itself a new round.
Do all things move in rings
or cycles they call.
Like the giant spheres that circles
the great ball of flame.
Akin to dancing
around the campfire.
A choreography left down
from so long ago,
now passed on
to every corner of the globe.
The bug that circles my lamp
or any source of light.
Then i see them
falling into Icarus plight
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