I've heard that art
Comes from a bleeding heart,
And a gloomy voice
With eyes full of tears;
But, when there were days
when no sound came out,
and no one was there,
you calmed my fears;
I never write for you,
But you're in every word,
I never paint you,
For you're my mirror;
Alas, everything's falling in place,
Just when there seemed no hope,
But, dear, this art has changed it shape,
And no gloomy sound will pierce your ears.
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