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The Language of the whispering wind lends me a handful of beautiful words;

borrowed and borrowed, I am indebted to the air that has sewn together my poetry.

But is it just to rely on the coming storm to make my emotions flow onto paper?

Without the hurricane my thoughts are limited,

and the stanzas from my mind are dull.

The eye of my poems do not lie within the eye of the hurricane.

I find my perfect outlet in the calamitous wall,

where the wind whispers louder than the shouts of my strongest thoughts.

-By Benjamin Collins

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