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Still in the stillness of the night,
I dream about my own my own demise –
And I don’t know whether it’s a prophecy
or just these thoughts on suicide…

By the heat of another long summer,
all my fears spring up; unfurling like petals –
But as a pretty flower without any colour...

And I still cry myself to sleep,
always behind this pretty smile
In the cold grip of winter, I melt away -
Drowned in inner tears, and like my clothes:
I'm burdened by a heap of thoughts - more to the pile!