A Poet

He picked his pen with no clue of words,

The words had fire, that could burn the hell,

Oh hell! Don’t remember what he wrote,

He wrote not for the others to see from the world,

The world raised their hands for him to see,

See the sun with words engraved,

Engraved among the gold like silver light,

Silver light that could reveal the secrets,

The secrets of love he could give in disguise,

Disguise of the ray from his words in the sky,

The sky wasn’t yours but a philosopher’s mine,

A mine full of thoughts and pebbled stones,

Stones with touch to turn into gold,

Gold of a writer’s philosopher’s stone!

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