Strange to think sometimes

When the clock strikes and calendars days fall

That the turning of the world

And the dance of the stars

Has alighted us upon the shores of history

In some sense, every day is history

For some the best day of their lives

Others pure tragedy

Some nations will mark it will joy

Others immeasurable sorrow

Strange to know

Well in advance

That the next day will bring something

Something spoken about, triumph or failure

Which, though, completely unknown 

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