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Poem 3

  • Writer: blackcloudtat2
    blackcloudtat2
  • Apr 12, 2025
  • 1 min read

In quiet hours the world stands still,

A hush that bends to thought’s own will.

No voice, no song, no whispered plea—

Just silence wrapped in mystery.


It holds the truths we dare not speak,

A balm for wounds, a place for weak.

In every pause, a tale is spun—

Of all that’s lost, and yet begun.

 
 
 

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