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By Rangskhembor Mawblei

These are lines you know

drawn by the clouds,

drifting with the wind

defining an empty space.

Our naked eye would have missed

but as they draw,

a new space emerge

nothingness becomes an arena.

Hatching with every drop of it

engraving the soil,

strokes after strokes

again and again and again.

Finally they leave not a mark, but

as I could still feel the mist,

the Sun pierced the clouds

and colour came out, seven of them.

I finally see what they have been preparing

I can't define it's beauty, but

after forty days in an ark

Noah knows how it feels.

By Rangskhembor Mawblei

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