Parading into the etched dark forest
humming the beats of the rum landscape,
in no wary, in no haste
stalwart steps in a calm pace,
and tuned chants of somewhat whispers.
Marching on the crippling path
stern against the vines or veins,
tempered on nicks and pains
in a forest that bears due
no sweets neither hues.
Then tramping on the thicket’s thorn
telling the forest, so is here
tracing stalks on rear
Of where is scarred
in the forest, in the heart.
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