"I see my face, forming over a cloud.
It was a jocund stage, away from the crowd.
It soon faded away, but didn’t turned me sad.
It’s my soul, not sole, don’t stab it hard.

"I thought of them as joyous, rustic.
Even, a nightmare was never that linguistic.
The scars and scribbles kept tarnishing my card.
It’s my soul, not sole, don’t rip it hard.

...