It is a strange world


The poet has left the house empty
In my backyard,
A bunch of dried leaves
I picked it up in one corner.
He who leaves is one kind of gone
Memories celebrate him,
It is a strange world and rules
I count the days according to that rule.

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Your memory is the work you left behind
Many will show us the way
Finding the motivation to survive this way,
I only get strength from faith.


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