A Hundred Years of Solitude
I
On the gloomy morning of November
A Hundred Years of Solitude is finished
So many, so much to remember
But all in a puff perished
Fame & shame, phony & glory
EveryThing is but a dreamy story
All that bustle & hustle, money & love
Is just struggle against solitude
If only we know there is a final cyclone
Why not give to fate and stay lone
II
What a hand
To make metropolitan so magnificent
And then turn it into a waste land
Who can decipher the Parchment
What a heart
To paint a world of beauty and glory
Only to wipe it out like sand art
Leaving no one to tell the story