I used to dream about a poem
The poem that I'll never write,
It is about my soul, bohem,
About the lonely daily life...
How shall I start? How shall I end?
How shall I let the words pretend?
I walk around, around the age
So much love and so much rage.
Can you describe a life of man
In two verses, maybe ten?
The rhythm gentle, the rhyme may bounce
In a kindly sweet romantic nuance.
Would be so nice... Is just a dream!
My life is real I touch and feel,
And even if it makes me scream
I can not sell it for a bill.
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