Born in this world, blessed are those:
Who with family and love; I suppose.
Born in this world, blessed are those:
Who live with friends and die very old.

Blood defines family; blessed are those:
Who belong to a branch of an old tree oak.
Love defines friendship; blessed are those:
Who aren't family but matter the most.

Born in this world; we come alone.
We live with people and then die alone.
Born in this world; blessed are those,
Who realize we're orphans or I suppose.

-The Silent Poet

The nature of nature she is; very silent.
Not heard and can't be spoken about.
Silence, a poet's way to bring out words:
Break her and I see myself left with Songs.

The mother of words she is; very thoughtful.
Nourishes them and they forget her throughout.
Silence, a seeker's way to see the divine:
Break her and I see myself left with Gods.

Omnipresent she is; very generous.
Disguises herself as sound, music or words.
Silence, that music which stands alone:
Break her and I see myself left with tunes.

-The Silent Poet

She was with him and he with her,
Like parallel lines, they really were.
One loved the other but couldn't tell,
Likes they were, but they could not repel.

Curious they were about each other,
Like when a child sees another.
Strongly anxious yet hesitant,
Innocent it was, something prevalent.

It was special, that exact moment.
Better than love or any sort of romance.
Friends they were and they loved each other,
He looked at her, like he looked into the mirror.

The wisest of men adhere to but one policy:
That a word once spoken, is a word that shall long be echoed.
And that,silence, if made one's only legacy,
Would imbibe in them, more than just the ineffable ethos.

-The Silent Poet

The angels have spoken to me and have told me this:
That the woman I love is their high queen of the heavens.
I am told by these angels that she now lives in a fortress of magic,
Of my heart; without her knowledge she rules behind those gates.

-The Silent Poet

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