Sorgartár
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It ticks the grass in the whistling wind
it lives so so thin in the piercing cold
it sleeps so light when it eases
It rises the sea in the eyes and testicles
it rips the undercurrent drop
the breath from your lips
It blows the rocks in the whistling of the birds
but it never budges the hidden heavy cliffs,
nor softens the tide in your eyessorrow drops