But for living I was born

To everything,
a time to weep
and move on for
good reason.
Too many blood-red
sufferings and
restless hours.
That offer only fog
and winds of apathy.
Yet, life is a privilege
to thrill with virtuous passions.
To kiss in autumn,
a summers song, and again.
I guess I will live on.
I guess I will move on.

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