A whisper, life, a tale untold, without you, vast,
But to whom now shall I speak?
Those who depart, they do not return,
Why does life bestow its fleeting grace,
Only to snatch it back in a breath's space?
Man, a prisoner of his own plight,
What the heart holds, distant from sight.
They, whose memory stirs with every turn,
Shatter into hues that in the eyes burn.
We endure, our constant plea,
The yearning for them, endlessly.
A whisper, life, a tale untold, so vast,
But to whom now shall I speak?
Those who depart, they do not return.
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