For all the pleasure

The rocks, the grounding is no longer able to avoid this.
Low pressure is sufficient for the lonely life.
As a frustrated presence, part of the hermit, enough to matter, and matter,
However, no part of the console,
For all the pleasure, happiness out of the lost.
Does not appear in the friends, not the beaver, which my tears flood dam .
It is only in the dark, melancholic the time out of the hourglass
quickly escapes into the air disappears.
On the face of pain longing, grimaces spreads.
Deceived in the country, there is enough darkness without light.
Created by the same creator of the morning sky opens hems,
timid, it creeps to the end of November. Rising melancholic,
rises into the air. Yesterday, a friend of a fractured seconds stroking,
my face: said you're beautiful, but too melancholy of the Friends.