Einnbúinn

Often I tend to lean,
To the left, then the right,
“Why must life be so mean?”,
Ask my dreams, in fright. 

Soon, I know the answer,
“There is no bad nor good”,
To myself I whisper,
But I keep the same mood. 

Days gone by, days to come,
All seem the same to me,
Knowing where I come from,
Does not show where to see. 

Months turn to endless years,
Those I love must I leave,
Hatred soon turns to fears,
And myself do I grieve. 

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