But found out that it hides in a plate of some chromic heart
Refuging in the structure of a deep down dome.
Which is soon to be known when time's metamorphic stand
I found a broom by the secured sacred stone
Of a greenish god whose eyes are White
The broom has heads of browns and blacks
Tied together by a black rope smiling like July's evening sun
They call it change.
And as one man passed by it, as I watched with my eyes
His hands, covered by the long and huge apparel on him,
Swinging left and right with a swash and swash sound.
With a strange familiar gesture on his face, a gallery of smiles came to be.
This act of his I tried to melt
But found out that it hides in a plate of some chromic heart
Refuging in the structure of a deep down dome.
Which is soon to be known when time's metamorphic stand
Has, like a clean wool be rubbed and caught in its greatest
Misery of a smelling dirty mud
Rubbed off its pure soul and stage like a caught-in-a-storm sun.
They call it change.
Though it's the same mountain that it wants to sweep
The same one which has never been clean.
They call it change, I hope this change does not change all, but forget itself.
Mide Benedict
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