Felix Brambaifa
The cry of the miserable
Is like the whispers in a waste land
Its strength determine, but feeble
And so hope is impossible to find
There, exists only the feel of desolation
Of the kind, akin only to despair
The will to survive clouded in confusion
For the agony of loneliness brings fear
The shadow of abandonment looms tall
Like the darkness that precedes deaths hand
When its purpose must enforce the spiritual fall
Into a realm, where all fates be bound
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