November 20th.

The world is an orb
And for good reason too
Allowing it to absorb,
its form large and blue;

There isn't much lack
in its perfect physique,
Constantly on track
in an endless mystique.

The world is a sphere
Always revolving true
While its inhabitants revere,
it regenerates anew;

It takes some time
And lots of needed space
Many a hurried rhyme
Saved by one perfect face

And in all the despair,
Whatever it comes to be
It continues its circle
Through the hope of destiny.

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