300 Days of Writing
Day 104 Poetry:
The language came and went.
It flowed and burned and boiled and blew.
The tongue rolled. The teeth cut.
The cheeks flexed and parted.
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There was nothing poetic about the words.
There was no magic in them.
It was the soul,
Who hunted fast,
And crafted something from none.
Сайхан Бичээрэй!
H