Many years have passed,
fractions of his soul were fading away,
as if they were the petals of a rose,
took by the wind for a play
Seeking for the brightness in that playful dream,
an emptiness was accompanied by a silent scream
echoing through his mind, reverting him to the dark,
so it disappeared: the bright silver song of a lark.
Full of beauty, of a heart and soul,
his was strange to him, full of self-loathing,
empty, hopeless, his mind used to stroll,
reflections of the mirrors to him were revolting.
Such beauty of a human being deserves no hell,
nor it was selfless enough for a heaven,
taking his own life for his beloved ones was a dispel,
none of the deadly sins, yet as strong as the seven.