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For how long should I remain silent,
when all I hear is a broken sonnet.
Fourteen lines should exist,
but shattered by a weakened fist.
The autumn road that seems cold,
hides a song no one has ever told.
Six strings on the neck of the bone,
was left into a deafening monotone.
How long should I press the sustain,
of a chord in a board of pain?
The tired bow preaches to unwind,
to free the arm of symphonic bind.
As the curtain calls down,
fourteen lines stood sound.
~ Yuu
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