When the bird loses its song
the sun does not dance in the morning.
The moon is a shadow of its former self
and the stars burn dimly into oblivion.
We are vessels of a thousand lives
the scrolls to a million stories
the memories of the dead
the dreams of the unborn.
With these words
we give life to the forgotten
our poems are dirges to the gods
prayers to the spirits.
We are poets
we are sons and daughters
we are white wizards, spells and potions
we are birds in open skies, doves and eagles.
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