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Strands of technicolor hues are
strewn through the void of morality.
Every color ever created lays
upon the pitiless ground in static strips
unorganized and overwhelming.
The wind blows.
On these ivory streets I run,
in the dark but not for fun.
My teammates, they are with me,
defining the Swahili word, harambee.
Nationals is the goal we seek,
though the work to get there is mighty bleak.
