Time cycles coloring
the morning of the day
on the wings of the weakest Up
hourglass will rise
weather. Every morning more
is more difficult to wake up
human, Nov.
black painted
is a country.
The pain and loneliness
the writer's shoulders bowed
press again. Every day
has its own battle time
against windmills.
On the inside I feel only.
Mother Earth again whips up her child.
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