The poet walks into the square,
not to soothe but to stir—
his words are stones in the fountain,
rippling the calm surface
where others came to drink.
The poem follows,
a sudden knock at the door at midnight,
a letter slipped under the mat,
its sentences lean forward,
asking questions no one wished to hear aloud.
Soon poetry gathers—
not one voice but many,
a restless crowd of lines and stanzas,
arguing, laughing, breaking into song,
each carrying a spark from the first stone.
And behind it all, rouses poetics —
a quiet sketching hand, its pattern
saying: this is how disturbance works,
this is how silence is broken,
this is how thought learns to walk again.
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