Like chirping birds on the first morning of May,
My hand hastily took the cursed pen and played.
And on the parchment, it endlessly swayed.
However, chirping birds will soon fly away.
Two different things foolishly compared.
Alas! The writer’s insane, well no one cared.
You can read but must respect, he invariably asked,
To the poems where poets’ spells he goodly casted.
For some reasons you don’t know
Why poems’ words are deep that was hollow;
That when read, you’ll had wine’s kiss
And in that kiss, freshens your withered lips
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