Poets

Oh the souls of the poets

no-one can ever understand,

they are souls of the violets

which are poets, themselves.

They feel lost in their lives

like the stars in the sky

they feel the moaning winds

and hear the roses cry.

Only the ones whose hearts

keep bitter and secret pains,

then in a moonlit night

can understand their veins.

And me who is laden with sorrow

that nobody ever has borne

In my soul I can feel the sorrow

of all those poets again.

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Poetas

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