My last train have left a long ago.
Reading today's papers,
with sorrow.
The sun rises and sets,
everything is as usual.
Not thinking about you,
really feels great.
I'm not weak, not a punk
And not great which I'm not ashamed,
I have my own little world
surrounded by the wall.
And when night falls,
I call for help,
because you are not around.
And each new day
boring as death,
because you are not around. © V. Morich
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