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+4 votes
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shared in Poem by
Sitting on the known ponds,
Laughing on the ancestral joke,
Beneath the umbrella where that all takes place,
There is no sign of Frogs and searching them are my lonely hands.

Chattering on the corner of unfinished roads,
Smiling on the glory of victory,
Above the pond where that all takes place,
There is no hope for Frogs and reaching for them are my lonely hands.

I am aware how they vanished,
Know why their croak is absent now,
Lonely hands used to chase them in open potholes and ponds,
They are gone from the entire world somehow.

I can't commit to save them in desperate times,
Devoting my best if they could still sound loud,
Lonely hands used to held them in those memories,
Not a single one left, all killed by the crowd...
commented by
very well penned bro...

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