By the clashing of words starts a war.
Words served by blood and sweat, it's fought.
When neither men nor metal can leave a scar,
Words are made weapons to **** a thousand hearts.

In a fortress of thoughts sits the sire,
Words are after all, only his slaves.
The intellect, his minister and the body, an armour.
He rules alone in the dark, his name is desire.

-The Silent Poet

The winds of time whisper but one tune and it enthuses-
The gloomy senses of a dreamy person with a shining mind.
Says to him; your life resides in travelling the world, dear son:
The waves call you unto them, with sun o'erhead and deep within.

In silent dreams cruises the aspiration of an enigmatic soul-
On the calm waves of youth, driven by a carefree fuel.
For the ocean is vast and glorious; and there are numerous isles
On which hopes could be docked and a life could be harboured.

Every person desires at least once, to live like a vagabond-
To move about places relentlessly and to flow like the wind.
Bearing the scent of people and the sound of life they go,
From place to place, revering everything from a corner of their souls.

-The Silent Poet