A writer in me
I don't know what fantasies
spigot, wind twilight
Hearing everyone's words, she cherishes it in words.
A writer in me
Don't know what dreams weaves,
Taking fragrance from flowers and color from butterflies
Sometimes it tells the story of a forest, sometimes a mountain, sometimes a waterfall.
A writer in me
Don't know how the wind blows with wings,
Riding on a horse of clouds stealing colors from the rainbow
Sometimes a shower of water, sometimes with the sweet fragrance of the soil, descends on the paper.
A writer in me
Don't know how it shakes this society,
Atrocities spread somewhere, superstition prevailing somewhere
She only speaks her mind about everyone, yes.
A writer in me
I don't know how to expect change
The worn-out traditions from centuries past
To refute them, it gives the form of a weapon to the writing.
A writer in me
I don't know what she wants
Whatever is happening right and wrong everywhere, just him
By exposing it makes some contribution to the society.
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