You try to strangulate that breath,
Which blows only your hymn in his flute.
You do not hesitate to see the downcast face
of the man,
That always cares to see a glimmer in your
domain.
You wish that pen to go dry,
Which wrote many books in your glory.
May I now ask you, why so?
Is it my fault?
That my heart did not hide from you its beeps,
And I honestly disclosed near you my weeps.
My pen did not know to weave a story,
And sheltered behind deceit in your glory!
I do not like pretense or buttering,
As truth is my sole principle of living.
What do you think was my expectation?
Was it anything more than a friendship as
high as heaven?
Free from the dust of the earth,
Free from selfishness, hidings and wrath.
Why you kill my innocent trust?
Is it because you cannot live with truth?
Why you prefer to go?
Why so?
Your pen causes to bloom many beauteous emotions, illuminated by the brilliance within the prose, of a remarkable wordsmith.
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