When, in a tempest, from the eyes they spill,
Two tears descend, a sorrow's deep thrill,
I hear the waterfalls, in mournful plight,
Are burdened by the weeping of the night.
Oh, pray, now let this burning flame subside,
Extinguish now, where shadows softly hide,
For lamps and tombs, in silent, solemn plea,
Are wounded by this burning agony.
What can I say? With innocence they plead,
"Do hearts, so broken, truly feel the bleed?"
The question echoes, fragile and so frail,
A whispered truth, within the mournful gale.
Your path is easy, thorns may yield to you,
But we, the broken, bruised, and feeling few,
Feel every prick, each wound that life imparts,
And suffer deeply in our shattered hearts.
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