And I would write something for no reason.
For no reason things around me will speak,
low humming, low gulping,
low breathing and suddenly,
out of nowhere my pen will work
watching sun set, leaving ivory behind,
those bricks gaining greenish filaments,
birds moving in a v of peace,
children playing on their terraces
with a ball, reminding me of a poem
that how nothing costs a dime.
Out of nowhere my pen works
spilling something I don't know.
Spilling something I've kept from hours.
And then, then there is this mystery
of writing something that hits my mind.
Sudden. Random. Captivating.
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