Inked
Inked


Those winds of the souvenirs;
Often fly back to play;
Those lost tales of life;
Buried in the whirlwinds;
Of epoch; As the soul cruise;
Through those ebbs touching;
Upon those stories,
Relaying the souls;
Of the tale; Nevertheless,
The soul sighs a bit,
As the epoch's mystic of watching,
Those scenes departed;
It is indeed ecstatic.