I’m sitting in the chair and writing in agony
White lines and black lines and many shades of grey lies
The art of my forgotten memory is made of lonely instincts
The dreaming eyes are broken shadow firelights
The truth to be no longer silence
No longer blind to seize my senses
Nothing in the barrier bush. Nothing in the wheel that soon reminds me
Somewhere in the sea the late is lifting sorrows; lonely widows
No longer warmth to hold you, mirrors bleak furies in the meadow
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