Small rays passing quickly.

 

Major roads with no room for us.
We will pass a lifetime.
Or go on the risk.
Somehow we have to get there.
Within us nothing to have managed better.
Give me your hand as always.
Will break through the woods.
We will come to a small village lane.
Behind the lake there is house with fireplace.
Before her two small chairs.
We will go on, surely someone has inside to ask.
And there, the fireplace will be lit.
There, will have our pictures on the wall.
There, something will whisper.
There, only we will listen.
Chair left is for me, right for you.
So we fall in sleep.
So we get old.

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