Common Measure (2)
Tired are we of reckless drives,
That keep us never still;
They soar upon the soul of lives,
That's never worth the kill.
The gathering of mosses too,
Lose all their spirits found;
When a love is not meant for you,
Gestures are no more sound.
The thrill that we'd have liked to feel,
Leaves us in dire straits;
The mosses we admire seal
The leech then penetrates.
Indeed the free bird in the noon
Gently lays off its shell,
To light its feather not so soon
Burning fires of hell.
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