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Revolution came and went before it began,
for the question of soul appeared.
The lie, with philosophical poetry,
it would be better to be silence.
Yet, what is a soul, or even Self.
It’s appearance is blick, salty.
Trying to make itself known, what it is.
Is there a word for it?
Provoked with such envy.
It could, this subject remain baseless.
But want would be said, then.
One is nothing, is not everything.
What is Self, or even soul?
Self removed from the nature of it,
will be, a toast to it.
If everything is like this,
everything is it,
a song.


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