A poem to division
ode to Hoopoes
Must be a bird, to fathom a prodigy
Mundane eyes do not often look up, high up to find any silhouettes anymore.
They do not often chill out with the loneliest kite
Soaring high with the tilted sun, a day is touched in deep around the eve
After Nemo is served, you may strum along your new thriller, blessed by Steve.
Any chapter that travels with you, sits there for a while
keeps you warm underneath the blanket, to fix a slip, meanwhile.
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