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The Vagrant Poet
I once knew a man, a vagrant by trade, whose rags bespoke his poverty, as if his soul had been stripped of all dignity. He walked the streets with a shuffle and a sway, as if the burden of the world rested upon his hunched and broken shoulders. His voice was a rasp, a guttural growl that spoke of a life of hardship and toil. But beneath his rough exterior lay a mind that was sharp as a razor's edge, a heart that was open and tender, and a spirit that refused to be broken. He told me stories of his youth, of the days when he ran wild and free through the fields and forests of his homeland. He spoke of the beauty of the land, of the people who lived there, and of the struggles they faced. He spoke of the colonizers who came with their guns and their greed, and of the violence they inflicted upon the land and its people. He spoke of the language they imposed, a tool of domination and control, and of the struggle to reclaim their own language and culture. I listened, enraptured by his words, moved by the passion and the pain that lay behind them. And I realized then that this man, this vagrant, was a poet in his own right, a master of language and story, a voice of resistance and hope in a world that too often forgets the power of the human spirit.
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Book: Shattered Sighs