Mound [Tags: author] At first I was devout, with sincere words aesthetics, writing until suddenly waking up, realizing there's no steadfast belief or persistence. But, the heart has always had a serious lack of experience. - Inscription - I place the helmet to your left, facing the flag, I still have fragments of a pure heart. For you, I am still devout and loyal. I have unwavering faith; whether hysterically crying, giving you my eyes, bowing down in the end. It was a real battle, not returning to the people, the only thing remaining is a cold head doing nothing less, this cross mound of sadness, crying, accompanied by deep silence. Over the inscription, a person, very carefully. The mound, a groom with a coffin, no epitaphs, a cross-head helmet. Forgotten are the withered and decayed wood, as well as the bullet holes after the fall rust stains. So obscure, out off from the bones, from the meridian to the skin texture, unsightly deterioration of fermentation. Turned into a twisted gray, holding his hand, this feeling, not light. Free soul ashes, but I did not want to be buried, so toss it, scattered on the ground, mixed with mud and I separated. Bidding farewell to life, the result is, settled just wishful thinking. Waking up, expecting rebirth, Montblanc pen, students may not, Montblanc pen sale, live not. Words can say if pale, wrote to make their move, but if it's not like this, hastily written text and the word, but only just.