Oh to be the poem, not the poet.
I wish I were the poem, not the hand that weaves it. I want to be the pause, not the reason? it pauses.
I wish I were the poem, not the hand that weaves it. I want to be the pause, not the reason? it pauses.
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Long hours of toiling,
Today, I saw a butterfly,
There, she sat on the terrace-floor,
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Two roads diverged in a wood,
I paced in through the darkness;
Walking down the dusty lane,
The world mumbled into her Tiny ears,