Many sparkles in the sky,
white they are but yet a lie.
Trees with red and yellow vain,
or the blood of matter plain?
Know I of the facts of life that cut me like a knife,
the pain so real I know I feel yet false I’m given strife.
Fear not I do for though this be I live my life still free,
for if no matter than joy be my decoy to forget this fact to some degree.
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