There is a voice that echoes from afar. Neither words nor feelings. Screams without force. The arms are far, the heart is far. Neither voice nor vigor. There is an echo, from a distance, in a long, dark tunnel. Foolish fights, momentary representations. Noise in vain and scars that don't heal. They are open in a wounded, enmity line. Gentlemen are fighting energetically to gather their ideas. Declare your wounds like bears hibernating in a cold, dark cave in a puppet dance that they just represent. In the mess of fury and confusion. Two sides, both sides. That none represents anything - it just echoes the distance, lengthens the steps, distances the desires, cools the blood and petrifies the heart.
Two sides of endless beginnings, struggles without ideals, fights without intentions. Coming and going - screams that lose, without power. Echoes float, spreading in the distance. That is gone in one piece - scattered in pieces. Perhaps there is a pot of glue lost in the echoes, forgotten in the noise. Left before the turmoil. That no one sees blind people. To the ferocious efforts of the dawn, the night owl deciphers, mysteries of the night recite, until the day dawn for the beings of the day and the night to understand. However, it is essential for judgment, when communication softens the heart, a devoted union of day and night, of light and darkness, both work for complete harmonization.