My blood is not from the academe
but I see the coarse Art from the dim.
These holding hands all blindly caressing the same
Paragons pioneering pale dragons of shame.
The youth of all is attacked by mirrors
of immortal and misstating shimmers.
All could last a glance.
There would be no manse.
The wilted petals are the zeal,
They witness idols on the hill.
We have to die to beget
Gods that no one could forget.
Let's claw the imaginary evil
and deluge with gold until the time's fall.
