I'll fly high to the sky
To see the mighty God
I'll carry my gourd
Filled with palmwine
To bless His son, the Christ
I'll tell him my suffering
Perhaps focus, he lost of happenings
I'll say i have become Christ's passion
That man seeks my destruction
I'll tell Him man thanks Him
For their headaches
That they blame Lucifer
For their wars and squalid and champagne
I'll fly to Lucifer
Man says he's a murderer, the destroyer
We shall drink tea
We shall have a feast
I'll beg him to relax
From wickedness for a week
The earth, the, shall feed the pauper and the weak
A truce we shall have
Oh! Man's truant heart
How strange he is.
If and when we would decide to read poetry or a piece of discerning article a day, our world is, then headed for a change. No magic potion whatsoever: if there were, politicians would have used it a long time ago. Our mind is all that we have; the only exception to tricks of all corners and angles. Enjoy the luxury and peace of poetry...
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