My men in form of flesh and bones,
as you foster and nourish your shape and skin,
feed morsels and meat to your dying self,
with sorrow your mind is in despair.
Your mind have aged, doesn’t holds strength of your giggling youth anymore,
it have dealt wit fits of agonising sadness that felt so heavy and hollow.
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Your mind grieves that you tore yourself from your conscience,
It gives up on rationality and thoughts.
Shall you not bring it back from sickness to health?
Does it not deserve nurture of kind thoughts?
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