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The Silent Saint

A saint sitting on a silent island,
mastering silently the art of meditation,
Seems satisfied with soundlessness, wordlessness, voicelessness and speechlessness of the vicinity. 
The reticence that his soul holds signals, towards something for sure that is concealed, unsaid, unheard and may be suppressed.
Pensive and spiritual are outwardly his ways,
deep down inside the silent cave of his superficially silent heart,
There can be traces of some painful scars.
 With his stern silence on the silent island,
he might be venturing to find the scheme of salvation for constantly screaming earthly souls,
because to practice and preach selflessness is his sole goal.
Amid his silent ways and prayers surprisingly and contrastingly the silent island, 
Like an orphaned baby awaits for the painful silence to break,
It awaits for sweet chiruppings of the little  birds to fill the silence of its surface.
For constant sea waves to strike its silent shores to end the tranquility with a lively tumult.
For strong gusts to blow and with gushing sounds sweep its silent sod and silt.
The silent island constantly longs for silent saint to realize that while hushed up screams of silence  are lethal and deadly,
The stream of nature's saccharine sounds are always lively and healing.
Sounds are the source of poetry,
Sounds are the base of music,
Sounds are the foundation of everything that's worth finding and fighting for.
















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