A box.

There is a box.
It feels, what it says.
Thinks, and acts,
Perceives, what it adapts.

This box is here.
But there isn’t a time, or a duration.
It has sensors,
It hears what is said,
Imbibes what is seen,
Accumulates what it notices.

A gift was once passed down to what couldn’t be contained in one,
One box.
The box couldn’t be rigid,
Neither too flexible.
It was made to stand.
Stand on itself,
On the wind and rain,
Or the hail and sunshine.

The box, traveled far off places,
To distant lands,
It heard, saw, spoke, it acquired.

Then the box was changed but set forth for the same journey.
The box continued but never came back to the start.
The box never even hit a finish line.
It reverted in a new cover, all the time.
And each time, no one knew what it was,
How it was.
No one was there.
Every one was new too.

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