The poem has withered away
leaving its suits on my bone
May the flowers find me, then,
and weep gently
besides my lonely gravestone.
May your claps not find me
in the market of my blood and flesh
may I never ever need to show
my tears to you
streaming down my wrinkled face.
Yes, everything ends and everything should
Yes, the juicy fruit ends up being a dry piece of wood
Yes, the moon without its spots would be rude
But then I must groan!
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