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This is not a poem

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It is colour for the blind,
For the deaf, it’s a tune
It can scream when inclined,
It’s a distasteful boon

A poem, this is not
It’s a song, which we say,
It is the language of thought,
It may lead to a fray

It is born from many tears
Fathers are tedium and smiles
For it, there are often cheers,
Black as night, for miles

Hurry, you!
It’s going away
It’ll leave but a clue,
It’ll run till it’s stray

A poem, this is not,
Like we earlier said,
It’s a gypsy, not yet caught,
Don’t believe me? You’ve misread

It’s gone with the wind,
Leafs, that have no splinter
And the fall, quickly thinned
And it is winter

This is not a poem

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