..is the colour of that ashen face 

..is the light which blinds the eye

..is the peak that seasonally lifts the sky

..is the sheet that caresses in its bosom a weeping baby

..are those blank walls which mute a thousand expressions

..are the lies that create these walls 

..must be the cries, ’cause they never see the day 

..is a canvas waiting to be painted in hues variegated

..is reality, and sight is illusion

..is that non-existent horse, which begets all-pervading confusion

 

 

..

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