Reopening a Hero S Songbook

In his songbook, are raving songs of beauty, which thrushes around the phrases of my mind and embroiders my soul on an errand into a white night of a white Christmas, in a white dreamland, and having sleepless dreams, and numerous pictures, which I can’t clearly depict but I could reminder an auction, where flood, was sold at a discount and breath, to the tallest bidder Therein in, my late hero brother, cheerfully sang from his hero’s songbook and I astonishingly sang along with a bright smile and cry, craving for a new hug, but we could not hug nor shake hands And he palely said to me, I am back to stay, never to leave But I woke up, to notice it was a white lie, Why so, my hero brother? I try to anger in white lightning, but I notice that my anger is colourless and my sweat is adourless I also try to use white magical feelings to give him a hug or bring him back, but I could not, because I am not a professional white witch, My emotions has been white washed, and I feel like white trash, because my hero brother has been trash away from me, by death I feel like giving up my white ghost, like a prostituted white slave, by drinking up a full tank of white spirit liquid, so I could be on his ream But my hero brother begged me not to He consoled me by saying; that no matter how transparently apart we where, his soul will never stop blowing the whistle of joy or flash a white flag in surrender to death Because his music will never end, nor will his whistle blend, because the only thing he has freely given to death is a white feather of shame This filled me will plenty white hope, I will sob no more! Because I now know that my hero late brother is a white knight I will wait for him, in this unlabeled white land till we meet and share hugs again