The edge

When understanding vanishes we stare,
From eyes of nothing, at nothing of wall.

We will  teeter on  the edge of a thought.
Our words will then sound as soft poem

Like a breeze in our understanding tree
Meaningless but a high art in bleakness.

The syllables will drop soft on our minds
Like a midnight breeze in the pipal tree.

You shall then hear entirely by our lips
And tweak poetries directly from them.

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