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A map of old, a map of dust,

Lost in a corner of our minds,

With broken bits, of hatred and cries,

That no hard wood could grind.

A map of darkness, a map of misery,

Sheltered with gold-plated stories;

Silence won’t reveal what is beneath,

The metal of yore would, to unfold the gospel and design a mind in wreath.

In the hollow piece of the map,

Awakens the force of truth, which is burdened by anything unlit.

The map is shattered now,

Not a one to fix it.

Time moves, and so do we,

And, everything revolves back to its place again, and also the mind’s plea.


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