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OTHER ITA SITES:
In the dead of the night there's a small voice calling,
A soft whisper from life, which soul is withering,
Song of death is sung with a hymn of putrid filth,
A troubled symphony playing for the dawn of rebirth.
Vultures flew around the lifeless and shattered dreams,
While the black of the crow hide it's horrible grins,
Wings of agony spread the threat of a hideous end,
Forbidding the warmth of spirit to penetrate and mend.
Four solid walls witnessed the whimper of a fortress,
The fall down and the explosion of a depressed mess,
Like the statue of a cherub above the undisturbed grave,
Praying for the heavy soul to be free and be saved!
Piercing words and stares are like deadly bludgeon,
From a disappointed expectation to a bloody rejection,
If the heart cannot feel all these smashing infringement,
Then the mind will not be guilty of a lost judgment.
Alas! Last night I died of a very painful death and blight,
But today, I will live again to stand out and fight,
For tomorrow will be my time of pride and rise,
To break out from this disruptive barriers of dead paradise...
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Travel Part B