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The Days

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To the days of Hallows,
Once gone and past.
To breasts of the swallows
In blooms which don’t last.

From the chill of hatred
And beat of the drum,
Old days now past,
Old friends whenst become.

My mother in heels,
Her shoulders draped in soot.
My father in bottles,
Piled up at his foot.

From the songs that I sing
To myself they’re reknown
And my brother’s soft wing,
Broken now
On the ground.

To the worship and prayer
Once loud to the world,
To the weak little flower
Having yet to unfurl.

The reek of my sweat
Beading my brow,
To the crack of the whip
Society shall allow.

From blond-headed boys
With fantastical blue eyes,
To the nights lying awake
With stars in my eyes.

To the truth of reality:
The invisible punch,
And need for the strength,
Right now
Too much

Through hardships I toiled
My heart in my hands,
And the blood dripping down:
Ruby droplets in the sand.

My years flew by
Without leading the pack,
And the memory of past loves
Stuck a knife through my back.

So when days come to their end,
And black shall resound,
I will not fear
For faith I have found.

When the light moves forth
And the last rooster crows,
My years are now over
And so are my woes.



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