Through the streets
Busy, lonely, bustling,
deserted
The silent pen in my
mind
Talks with strangers,
onlookers;
Writes all its
actions, inactions
It sees the world as a
page.
Days and nights are
born
A treasure limitless
With reasons, meaningless
They come and go
Dancing like the
waters, it witnesses.
Death, a birth
Beginning, an end
It writes
Captures moments
Relieves for the next
The stage returns and
returns.
It goes on and on
Writes the writer without
a pause
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