Omul
310
he’s coming back home
it’s so cold,the windows are crying,
there’s nobody home,
it’s so cold, the flowers are dying
where is the green grass,
the breeze of the tree
everywhere is a brash,
and nowhere harmony
in a corner the box
of his poor chilhood
a toy soldier, memory
of a life no too good
he’s taking a soldier
he brush away the dust
himself is the soldier
and himself is a ghost
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