a cup of tea on a hot plate tears
left to dry next to the reflection
the red disk of a sun tired
destroyed when the soul thinks about death
as the day is thrown into the arms of the night
but the soul I think about his fate
as a new star rises in the morning
that melts the ice fields ice
that warms the shoulders of peasants bent
that strengthens the spirit of man indignantly
reminds the world that his fate marked
who seeks the shortest route and milder
to reach that place great
that is in the eyes of his soul mate.
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