There are seventy-two to choose from;
The symbols of collective experience
Tattered from the decades of shuffling
Rife with stories, weather beaten and
that one still has a spot of coffee on it.
Doesn’t matter, they still read the same
Over and under they fall into place
Each one a story in it of itself
Unfolding in different times, places, people
The story is the same
We’re all human, and it hasn’t yet changed.
