Wrinkles


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If a cage bird can sing;
with their voices being carried,
beyond the mind’s tunnel and scope,
and I am a bee buzzing on dreams;
where I play violins on the eyes of nectars,
and still am also a caged bee,
why can’t the caged human sing,
from his heart when down-shadowed by life’s miget?

The Village Thinker © 2014

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