Poetry
What about storms, sir?
Some don't come from the wind only
you wave your hair
and storms come into the hearts
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I'm not complaining about you anymore, I'm complaining about myself
I'm dying every moment, every day
but your loneliness is in me
But not in you.
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I left the village and came here
I will make a name for myself in the city
making this name
Turns out, I myself
I will become anonymous.