In these customary
regimen,
Along these sordid
specimen.
We long for just a
tiny bit of liberty,
That may yet cost us
dearly
In these lonely
halls,
Along, in our
solitary strolls.
We dream of the wind
our hair,
That which our
bronchi wouldn’t despair
In those scorching
moments
Along those stony embankment.
We wish for those pearly
drops of rain,
That, has not turned
to acid to cause pain
In these grand
moments,
Among those lofty
monuments.
We look, long and
hard ahead,
That, bequeath my
children shall, this planet dead.
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