White Many speak of their sorrows and scars, And o | English Life

"White Many speak of their sorrows and scars, And of love, not wanting them. But I, who don't have them either, What I sing is something else altogether. With me, a nightingale sings where Existence itself relinquishes its will. You hear it, ponder, and turn sombre, And my grief grows as well. Ah, if only poetry were More than just ink carved on paper. You had nowhere to go—remember? You open a window, to where Fields of grass are taller than trees; Where the dryad hides herself Beyond the use of mere imagery, And the moon mirrors the stars, Where you dissolve into your own tears ©Sup_holster"

White Many speak of their sorrows and scars,
And of love, not wanting them.
But I, who don't have them either,
What I sing is something else altogether.

With me, a nightingale sings where
Existence itself relinquishes its will.
You hear it, ponder, and turn sombre,
And my grief grows as well.

Ah, if only poetry were
More than just ink carved on paper.
You had nowhere to go—remember?
You open a window, to where
Fields of grass are taller than trees;

Where the dryad hides herself
Beyond the use of mere imagery,
And the moon mirrors the stars,
Where you dissolve into your own tears

©Sup_holster

Sup_holster

White Many speak of their sorrows and scars, And of love, not wanting them. But I, who don't have them either, What I sing is something else altogether. With me, a nightingale sings where Existence itself relinquishes its will. You hear it, ponder, and turn sombre, And my grief grows as well. Ah, if only poetry were More than just ink carved on paper. You had nowhere to go—remember? You open a window, to where Fields of grass are taller than trees; Where the dryad hides herself Beyond the use of mere imagery, And the moon mirrors the stars, Where you dissolve into your own tears ©Sup_holster