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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