The night, like monster with hundred faces, comes.
A lone candle burnt... continues to burn...
A moth, an old friend, came
... began to be burnt. Slowly.
The candle needed the moth,
to stay far, to stay alive.
He preferred to die, she lived,
with a harder fate of a lone wood in a forest.
Choices in love are onerous. Though,
It is an old story, now.
You read it, love.
I read it, loss.
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