Turnover my secret past 
I have to dig up my future 
In the hour of crumbling walls and dark 
clouds. 

Pale moon becomes a beacon 
in another version of solitude 
where nobody speaks of sores and premature 
death. 

I stay away from twinkling stars, 
from the blossoms of traveling night 
and winds which are moving towards the 
sky. 

Sullied words will go for a conspiracy 
making a ghost of my garden 
where seeds are sprouting.

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