Cachonne

The destiny of skies and objective ties,

My wrist have grown weaker by all means,

Pushing the weight of artificial suffering,

To horizons that fade with every tinge,

As a man’s skin hardens,

I clasp my hands in religious fervor,

As the Chaconne hums the sorrow of my past,

Am I a man in spite of my weakness,

Or is that my respite?

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