The Divine Miracle
Time can not measure the joy.
Cries from the helpless creation in your arms.
The fear of what lies ahead mixed with the expectancy of the same.
The days will be stored by landmarks.
The scenes, a relief pattern in the frames of your mind.
And you'll hold every moment like the breeze on a Spring day.
When a Poet Dies
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What do you do when a poet dies?
When Maya died Oh how I cried.
Who will give us the words from the other side.
A poet, a scribe, a teacher, a preacher, a...
11 years ago
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