the world's sore can't be cured
if you hold your own grief
the crows never stop the soar just for the thunder roar
and the thunder roar
at the bourn of a world reborn with raspberry grove.
when the leaves tripping grip the tree
and the wave so sleek dip the dead leaves,
when finally the sky weep at the rim of the sea
and the night drift from noon to meet the third shift.
when your heart tired utter for sleep
and the wind ponder
making you wonder
what are you even doing without any dreams?
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