Silver daggers with stains of blood,
Were found under my desk.
You ask why?
Well, the last but most beautiful memory,
Of the ones i trusted with my ferry.
Some in the chest and some in back.
But each dagger was stabbed twice,
One for me and one for my boat,
With each trench somewhere i got lost.
It took some time, but each once,
Its true that i filled those craters,
But what about the scars you ask,
Well, Those silver scars did never scatter.
Yes, Still I keep those daggers,
And what more can a foolish heart do,
Rather than just being true.
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