Who pressed the hidden bell,
that stopped all beauteous things?
The tinkling softness that breaks upon,
the brow of beggars and Kings.
Where is the shining sun,
that warms the timid grass?
The soaring clouds above the sea,
all gone to shadows and dust.
Why does the wind blow cold?
Across the scorched and charred ground.
The fading ring of that hidden bell,
how can my heart be found?
Anon.
Poets sum things up so damn well..
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