When I hunt for maxim,
Strength seems shrinking down.
Counting pebbles, corpses and corps;
I stick to the torn desires
They fume like bubbles,
Want to capture within me.
They rupture to breathe
Unfortunate my wings
Fortunate sand, respiring high
Wishes swing and fly
Never heard the cry
Aching are my feelings
with a loosening hoist
I rest on them,
they break and never stagnant.
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