waiting not for me, or for my pal
carrying with it only the top soil
leaving behind persons in vain dream
i a lousy sheep roll on a warm bed
letting go the moving with no dam
chasing flies sitting on a lazy ram
without to that goal running ahead
at best i cry for that spilling milk
like a poet composing empty words
at worst i’m like those naughty gods
unconcerned for those weaving fine silk
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