Wrinkles avalanche your nails.
Chests do plow the dirt.
Never will you dumb my stride.
Never, I, you'll hurt.
Thunder do your drying Breaths:
Crackle, then they trickle.
Known I not the Grown to cry
For things Children deem fickle.
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You're T.oo M.u.CH.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem