These are my keys.
Though similar to the ones of many others', they are surely mine..
Keys! You were eight years old and were all white;
( The sky then used to circulate rumours ـــــــــ Rainbows.)
I wasted my two lives colouring you by a belief in the pigmented rumours.
Eh, keys! I am tired of keeping you….
Go.. Go, no rancour, keys! Just go…
Those are the keys that I lament