what matters a sky which, comprizes colours one can not picture
or the chords in balance that, composed the song of past
the eyrie tunes of the march
and howling, bitter scowling
perceive one's life not harsh
dreaded mud, forget it!
in vain we flow through rivers which, is said to be a life
some moment trapped in water being, shallow and a little dim
now only praying to my current
although I did obstruct her
to carry once more onwaves onward
loathed mud, please?
(waar slaat, in vredesnaam, die titel op?)
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back in black and with a vengeance
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