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I don’t know, since when,

Holding your hand and walking beside,

Turned into clinging and forced you to divide.

You would be happy to know,

I somehow learnt walking alone,

Yet feel strong.

About happiness I cannot say much,

For you never count it with smiles and gestures.

The story of happiness is such.

The journey might become cumbersome,

Gardens might turn graveyards,

And barren would be the paths.

The more I tried,

The more I kept losing.

The more I took pains,

The more I was treated with disdain.

Once you were the twinkle of my eyes,

The voice in my words,

The calmness on my face,

And my footprints’ trace.

Such is the history of love,

Incomplete, obsolete and discreet.

 

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