I have sinned and yet go free as a ship set sail
Though it triggers a giggle in my little ego
My fingers bleed and I am disturbed by distant wails
Of the spirits of poets

In the beginning of time, I cared not of the past
Neither the sun nor the moon had stories to tell
And such was my task; to let knowledge flood the peaks
I knew not a story; neither a lie

On the 26th day of the last month of oblivion
The spirits of poets came forth unto me
They spoke words that I could only write
As I was lost in thoughts of codes and deciphering codes
One injected into my skull a content of abstraction
My thoughts were distracted with images of impatience
And my vision returned illusions of past events and thirst for revenge
My blood vessels boiled with hot red and black ink
That set leaking out of my thumb and first finger
And set a chain reaction of whirls of words and winds of words
I spoke in a tongue I know and had long ignored
I spoke the Written tongue; with words smeared on the walls of Wails

When I had recovered fully, I made that pledge
And since then did I live to please the spirits
By writing lines of poetry to reflect their feelings
My thoughts are a mirage that never ceases to be
And I knew that forever I had to pass the message of the poets
The spirits of poets

Yesterday as I was preparing for my rest
I for once more heard the wails and screams of disturbance
I searched my thoughts and soon realized
That I had committed a sin for which I ought to hang
One of the screams now came clear to me

“Frank! Shall we not feel rejected for ever?
If you, our choice, kills us too in cold blood?
Does it not occur to you that this month we own?
And yet you let the half of it without a gift for us!”

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