The moon peeps at a snail's pace...
as the billows clear out and rest.
The shadow casts over its distress...
in a river filled with spoiled remains.
Shivers. Pain. Wailing. Barriers.
Choking itself up! To death it wavers.
When could it be finally free?
...when the last heartwood ceased from a tree?
The bosom starts to refrain
The candle, however, remains.
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