I hear the sound of pickaxes
Banging the iron
A surface that breaks into small parts of nothingness
Forgotten and left behind
Moving forward
Every day again
Until antiquity catches up
The horizon looks gray
Started right behind the scratches
Necessary but not everything
Everything has scratches
But the less the better
More varation
More joy
Moments you don\'t hear the banging iron
Moments of hearing animals
Sounds of nature
More clear and brighter blue
Pickaxes are a part of life but not life
Sometimes you need to look outside