The branches are sagged under the weight.
The white covers the green.
The green sprouts out the white.
It takes me such a long time
to fill a right word to the feeling to the power of live .
A journey to the birthplace of Mozart is an uneasy pilgrimage.
The way he had never returned from Vienna for strifing living.
A city he had earned bitter other than nothing.
Vanished a brilliant comet forever in cosmos darkness.
Looking at sunlit valleys in a cleaning fog , beyond
blue tent en lighted is the meaning of life .
However there still lies an unbridgeable chasm
without a rainbow of spring,
for it green pines hopefully embrace.
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