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Why does my face show every smile that I have ever given to a friend or a stranger?
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Why does my hair glisten a shiny silver?
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Why do my hands quiver when I bend to pick a flower?
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Why, God, are the roses red?
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At the conclusion of my story, my eyes locked with Mr. Reynold s eyes, and I saw a tear slowly sliding down his cheek. It was then that I realized that life is not always based on the answers we receive, but also on the questions that we ask.
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