Songsters Of The Woodlands
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The tones are the phrases to which our spirits would descant if they were to serenade the Lune.
Ears yearn to unravel every note as if they were scouring the inlets of a story. The inkling throbs within the noblest of Dragon Blood.
It moves even the most desolate of wolf whines. For this is the tone that whisks in nature's blood.
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This is the key that is already entrenched in our sanities.
This is the pitch of the thicket. Of a craving to be unrestricted.
This is the volume of remorse in the instant like that hunter who watches a realm's cessation.
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- Janaki Mehta ©®™℅
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