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Once,
my love left the palm of my hand
and flew away out of sight.
Suddenly,
in my tangled state of mind,
my torture became a delight.
The ordeal to try on living with
an utter shortness of love.
Is like an overdose of death,
or emptyness from God above.
The magpie laughs at the scarecrow
in the lake a swan.
The jester hides a tear
like he has always done.
The bitterness in his soul,
the taste of newborn bile.
The feeling he lost,
defeatism now
is...,gonna prevail.
All the love,
no one will see,
will end up in a gutter
like a horrible atrocity.
And he has so much,
so much to offer
as a forgotten but present abililty.
What will he do
with all those feelings
they won't receive?
He thinks: "Nothing."
'Cause, nobody wants it.
And that's one thing
he sincerely believes.