Fine with all fines which life imposed,I am no sage,
Who will have no rage,
But we get out,
What we put in pot,
Then this is life,
You have to brood,
In the depths of solitude,
All alone,
Like a stone,
And blend together,
The torn pieces of life,
Like offing,
We have to accept hate,
As this is fate.
No comments:
Post a Comment