For an endless taste of pain and glory,
Some men are willing to die;
Next stop for them may be their last,
Through a looking-glass they cast their glance...
All hopes in a frailed moment flash,
Withered blossoms decaying lay in a half-emptied cup,
Mankind drinking the wrath of their own lust,
Souless cold statues made up of clay and of mud
Just an opened door, or a little crack in a vintaged glass,
Now the air sorrowfully mourns upon a fading red rose...
Awaiting a new morn dressed by foggy lengths of gauze,
Somber eyes fearfully stare at the stormy clouds,overhead...
Till the next time,again starts to fall the rain...
Dorian Petersen Potter