Utter

I, the last bud be borne

After ye passing storms

For I follow no norm

That sweeps the paths so clean

Of wide and ambled ease

That none is left for glean

For I have travailed Hope

With faith so perilled steep

Coming last, never least

My tears did pensive peep

Up on heavenly peaks,

The laggard’s last to speak.

Cheung-Ling Wong

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