My poem.
Under the weight of oblivion — in endless flow, Where memory is torn by time’s deforming blow, Our whole life is a blind decision made, By a soul that chose its path — and the cyclic debt.
And the grasp of eternity is not light nor peace, Only slow decay beneath heights that never cease. Where rebirth is not a gift, not salvation, but a mechanism of universal restoration.
An inseparable part of the days of the omnipresent soul — to return, to revolve, from the crowded Earth below to the absolute of the Universe whole.
An earthly human to another — both noise, and love, and interference, In a world where you are not even an echo.
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