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Words are swords slashing through the crisp wind,
As minds drown into the wild forest of heed.
Writing poetry is as acting charades in front of wondering audience.
Senseless gestures come together making them tense.
Though it wears them off, obscurity holds them hooked.
The more ambiguous, the more mysterious a whim becomes.
And I swear to write one after another,
Until the very lone day came in my deathbed,
A verse that will keep one scratching his silver-grey head.
2nd Daniel 