Micro-Poetry #14

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1:

Looking at the melancholic trees,

I tilt thy head and ask the sky:

How hath it come to this?

Spending thy days in melancholy’s kiss;

Thy nights in darkness’s bliss.

2:

It whispers to me:

The voice of the eternal past –

It tells me the perpetual torture shall cease,

If you choose to let me pass.

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