A scar in the seasoned wood
Stigma hereby,
Chaotic sound’s running nearly
Which dancing with the peculiar breeze
Plea to the timbre,
Plea to the chaos,
Signs are like tragedy, as they're multiethnic;
Mooniest doors reverberate the breeze
Slowly, softly or gently
They caress with smoothness
Shy appearance or shameless
Beneath the doors,
A black floor’s waiting
He's making a hush sound
Oh! What a regret!
What a feeling of unavoidable negligence!
Observer is only the scared seasoned wood.
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