The poetry is the highest occupation for a man who loves it. He may not call it occupation but shall call it his Life's creation.
Something which he did construct. Something which saved him from havoc. It was above all his poetry.

In another moment did he climb that mountain,
In another slot he was dancing in the Niagara falls,
Ah! Really! Did he jump into the falls? Yes! But in his emotions, which consist of his vibrant poetry

Enthusiastic is the call which comes again and again. In the lanes of my thoughts I fruit the joys and dance again. Maybe it's winter or it's rain.. I can enter anywhere

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