A crumpled paper knows its demise;
It will sail from hands to feet,
Above and below the imaginary facade
And end its journey with the bin’s greet.
They say it’s impossible
To prevent the falling in;
Inevitable, they call it,
Lose sense of all before giving in.
I gave in, he said it too,
We too gave in, the crowd proclaimed.
Yet it makes me miserable
To admit the states of fallen-undead.
Hail love, hail happy life;
The life is depressing without it.
We are destined, my pals, against it,
We will live unhappy rather than with it.