With the sprinting air,
With the sprinting trees, blocks, vehicles,
With the sprinting men and women,
Who are actually very low in speed.
The bus moves slow with its speed rising high,
The grey stuffing's near the drains build-up,
With the drawn-up workers, the sheet looks new and the old lies
temporarily at something else.
The empathy of living with the same down up workers,
But the greens on our bows,
Which they never think to go around.
A sweat tearing out of the head,
With a salty fluid on its layer bed.
The shoulders brushing,
The heavens blessing and the cherish-moment of happiness get
all along.
As we got off the air sprinting taking off to the fluid.
The uncertain sadness pulls our adrenaline above,
But the love in the heart brings it all back.
The success if men are in love,
But what is said to be the weakest side?
The bed layer of sweat is also a fact,
Was everyone is on another for the green part of life.
Life goes all around with the same sprinting garden,
Only without flowers,
We make water that bears flowers,
And the flower that we get is blown to make it fill to the
same as it was before…
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