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A Writers Vocation

April 7, 2013


I sit at my study table

The fire warming the silence of this rainy afternoon

A slender flame leaps out of the place of shadows,

Making me profess that which may not go in vain.

I lift the pen with my right hand

And bring the diary of my life so far towards me.

I ask the flame of knowledge burning before my eyes

Where do I go from here … what is my vocation?

Answer it gave me naught

But its bright words burnt my paper thrice;

Upon the words I wrote it bade them

Leap from slumber and enter within.

Every writer of truth understands

His writings come from that one single fire

That blemishes the red wounds of a sage’s flesh for us;

Every time he lifts his pen

To pour out his hearts yearnings onto the papyrus,

His duty towards mankind is sealed in it.

A writer’s…

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