Oh those subtle thoughts’;
now darken by the past,
decaying leaves turns to mulch and that never last.

 
I hear those uplifting hearts;
shall not they ever sing,
thy weary cries die at night while the death toll rings.

 
Could I not want sweet fruits;
born from a wicked deed,
who’s to know of good or bad if they both now bleed.

 
Let the murky waters rush forth;
before ye to be baptized,
who’s this noble to decide my after life will be capsized.

 

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