The wind is blowing
And my palm is sweating
Nothing is left but whining.
High peaking mountain
Excited blood in my vein
The last victim was slain.
Forest of memory
Screaming so violently
Cultivating the misery.
The birds are free
Flying as far we can see
Will I be like thee?
We are the droplets of unvoiced matters, forming a puddle full of mud of our thoughts - forced out or poured down, it doesn't matter.
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