Yesterday, the Hermit couldn't sleep.
The man suffered spells
of weariness and
his heart was unwell.
His tea leaves would foretell
all his work toward every hope
and every dream
would succeed,
and all his wants
and all his needs would
be achieved. But,
as fate often unfolds,
a crack across his teapot
caused the thing
to leak. Everything
for which he pleaded
was then leaking on the floor.
He collapsed into his door,
for he felt now
he would be weaker,
he would be worse off than before.
The Hermit, who couldn't sleep--
being mortified by every
soiled dream--
found the next day
his stock of tea leaves had
blown away
through the open door
he had knocked down
the night before.
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