Weather the storm
How much is left at least I could
Winning the tempest that will come
And I know that I think here or there
Done On the evening on pain, dead or dark,
Merely resulting in the bleeding
What can or indeed will shape
The time to make and display
Resting on the stage in anguish,
Dressing the fantasy most atrocious
Nobody would listen to my voice
Neither follows the old dream
Where does who still remains to showed
Marking with the harsh the face fear
And how much I insist on it and recompose.
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