Wonderous of paths crossing over lines of this fragile life. It’s autumn in the mid of falling leaves, scars of sreaming roads cry for the pain so red, coloured on the stakes of setting sun.
Why are there your shadows for the sight so blind? Is there anything that takes memorial so beautiful,
Do I see it from the cage where I shall settle the stakes of that setting sun.
Have you ever gazed to those godly being live up so high, fanciful,
Where other are swayed in low, gunned to desires.
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