I am not a professional singer,
Nor a proclaimed composer,
Nor can my unmeditated art
As one may term it at his will,
Soothe your ills, or cool your
Disturbed thoughts .My Muse
Inspired by her
dictum like the
Ancient saying or scriptural
truths
Governed by laws of Nature,
Tapping my voices to
sing or
Compose, at intervals, those
Profuse outcomes are final
Juicy fruits filling our thirst.
I seen in records, in my physical eyes
Those that live by rote
and write,
The dead and eternal
,living and
Wandering all-- day and nights
Keep write for some reason or rhyme.,
Sad or sanguine, pine or peace,
As SUN and STARS
shine and hide,
Again back in the orb, as seasons flow
In turns the Art of Writing
will flourish,
As Music like ripples go in veins of
Musicians and strings unbounded.
Our accustomed turmoil,
Our pathless struggles and pains,
Hidden stories in our rocky hearts,
Coveted desires stay , some to be
Slain, some to be prolonged until
Filtered like sediments in the bottom;
All reflected in the mirror of letters.
There is no Death to these forms
Long live, literature, long life Music.
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