Robert Frost penned a poem that remains in my memory yet today. It's one of the few things I remember from high school, academics-wise, at least, and most likely the only poem. The story line goes like this- a woodcutter accidentally cuts himself at work in the forest. He bleeds out and dies. It's a big deal for him, obviously. But for everyone else, except his family and friends, life goes on, just as before.
OK, now you know why I don't write poetry. But there is relevance. Many of you…
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