Stop, don't stop
Looks like wanton banging,criss-crossing
Paths jammed,benign smile
The trade is passed on
Touching in haste
Caressing in fearsome worry
I'll love gently with my eyes up
Shoulders high,flashing red
The black signature of the opus
Did I say anything now?
They're on their way to the market
With boiling eyes to serve me...,I
To their customers as desert
May they burn and soothe
In cold ice ash,my heaven for them
Since they wouldn't shed off the dew leaves
I've refused the morning sipping shrill
May you rot as Amadioha's wrath fetch you out
Will you survive the god of Iron?
Ouch,what a pity.