Every Life And Soul

Every tulip brothers a man's wine,
It pours to the source of a soul,
Like clouds of Spring the burden of liquids
Has arrived like rainfall.
The main wine is in the brook of the world,
Flowing from a mountaintop,
Little by little a drop has been collecting
So huger than earth and soil,
The barren desert is so desolate and watered.

One finds oneself in a multitude of sin,
A city has been begun by the swords of the one,
Let him be an impostor of a different kind.
One finds this city of manliness a daughter as well,
That worships the parent or the father alone.
One sees a touch to the situation,
Why do they rise with their salutations?
One finds the wines so endearing,
The main wine is left from a spring
That ears have seen, and eyes have heard.

The gusts will blow on this mountaintop,
Filling the atmosphere with more,
Scattering the tears of the one who dies
Instead of lives,
Death provides those with heart.

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