Under the gloomy moon I was, last night, 

    I was exiled by the frost realities,

    Only gazing at the moon bright,

    And see how we are refugees from the self,

    Even our consciousness failed to give our asylum,

    We try to kill the bells’ rings, 

    The last sigh, last breath of a dead soul, 

    But after all, after hitting the ball,

    After our bodies frost from depression, 

    from sadness, fried grief of huge mansion, 

    A small squirting of sound go mad, 

    Inside me, or not, maybe inside my heart,

    Saying loudly, loud and loud hither, 

    Maybe it’s the last sip of water, 

    Or the last flicker of light inside the dome, 

    Last breath of anything freaky fresh, 

    It may the last planted branch on this land, 

    The last tree amid the sand, 

    The last blow of wind,

    Last minute in this cracked land, 

    But I will breath until I can’t, 

    And I will live to the last beat,

    To the last cast of time, 

    To the last shadow of mine. 


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