At last I understood: life is
futile, death is everything, every struggle
is a spell that can never be read, an
impossible ending is held
wherever I feel, everything
Sisyphus rolls the stone over and over again To the hillside
when I am modifying everything, or coincidentally
some of my own inherent sadness, because
the wings of butterflies can't fly over the sea
Although sometimes I am just like
them, from the cold sea bottom of trillions of years,
gushing in the gloom and exchanging saliva
mother, Please bless me with your tender blessings
not to be born, to fly without a name on
your umbilical cord... Soon it won't be like this
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