There is a spring, and I have been to the free one
Baked with a head, silently,
Mental, than dreams flying away,
They blur doubtfully so.
My head the hugging branches
His amorous dalliances
I do not look at it rather the shades
His ghost vibrations.
Is because of that so possibly, dared soon
I will lie beneath there,
My bosom getting cold and closing my eye
On the profound bottom of the grave,
Disturbed because of no earthly noise,
To crumble being destroyed,
Saved from the trouble of the life finally
To scatter as haze.
Suspect?... you are maybe I am disappointed again,
As what I was disappointed so many times:
waited for vainly, that the burden of the life
Here to let the it was my turn.
Will be so again?... and yet for the joy of life
His butterfly flies back then,
His mood for the few calyces,
What he finds in my soul yet?
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