Luck reminds me of sin,
Sins collect from the odour.
A fortune fades, faces do fight,
How do we describe the sins?
The luck is like gambling, a soot
From the chimney of the home.
My sins concern me, like fire and ice,
They flop, flip and fold in a paper-form,
To write books of acts and messages,
That luck writes, that sins are simpler.
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