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The Guerilla



Let me write my words,
Words from my tampered but hopeful heart,
Words from my greener pastures,
And words comforting me from my comfort zone
To the world, the tiny inferno.

Like the morning dews,
Our dreams were fresh and fine,
Counting on good glistering catches;
And ready to leap
Like a puma ready to prey.

But fretful ambush in patience
Laid down at the toes of our shore of actualizations.
Like silence in the air,
Like guerillas in a compartment,
Fed on dreams ready to be hatched
It is it- the heartless plague.

Some hopes are blind; some- grain of sands
And down the war field,
Are men with rickety hands
Fighting the Invisible in the world of visibility

Let me shed pitiful tears
For the man caged in his own haven,
Forced to slaughter his dreams on the altar of
Destruction- and served silence to feed on.

For choices are scarce at the market of life.
Oh creator! Save our dying souls
The world is at stake of malady
And our anvils are feeding us evilly.

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