I tried to sketch your face once again.
But instead of a pencil, I accidentally grasped the fountain pen.
I tried to paint you on my canvas.
But the colors couldn't spread perfectly with my broken brush.

So I chose the black ink instead.
And stroked the letters on my paper's bed.
Your features attached by this imprudent poet.
And there, you will never be called dead.



© Razda J

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