The endless chase.

The cold metal of the bench
Transpire memories
of ancient days
where the moon and the sun
play the endless chase

the birds sing to them
songs of victories and fails

and to what end
the old man goes
back and forth
the old trail

on those gray hairs
runs wisdom of old days
that comes to memory
when the black veil
falls into shades
and from that wisdom 
the world comes to an end

it's not freedom nor hate
that borns on such haste
but unlimited solace of mind
that finds roots
on this eternal fair.
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