How could we know that we're going to die there, and that our sadness will grow a little more. Hope, we would take refuge in the desire to coincide with happiness.
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But the noble death, we have been running away all the time; If we had the pain we would have the courage to face. How wrong we were when we were wrong in our hearts while relying on the fancy words of those great minstrels whom we would not call a holy guest.
He will never come; what people will do what happiness is happiness of the blessed place, no pen can not write, the language can not be expressed in the snow will be enchanted by those beautiful, the sky to reach the sky with the sky of eternally extending the imagination of green lagoon.
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If we compare it with other branches of art, poetry is clearly the most human being, the art that has been most concerned with the dark and lonely emotions that man cannot even admit to anyone.
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