The Whistling Poet

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You can hear him in the early morning.

He’s conducting classical lessons with

the birds swarmed around him, listening in


on trees. The air he so freely breathes, filters

through his lips and is released as this harmonious

melody. He has no need for a violin with strings or


any instrumental tool, a real musician would seek.

These birds were fascinated by his innate ability to

conjure the same sweet sounding noises, such as the


ones they to, can squeeze through their own beaks. It is

ironic to see that this poet has more in common with

the flying creatures he see’s than with his own humanity.

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