not merely a placeholder,
but a silent prophet,
foretelling the return
to worlds half-forgotten,
an oracle that binds
the thread of stories,
weaving the reader’s soul to
the spirit of the book.
In the tempest of pages,
it rests—
A silent orchestrator of
synaptic symphonies,
A lone sentinel at
the gates of dawn and dusk,
Cradling the twilight of thought
and revelation.

//captioned//

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With an ongoing commitment to humanity, dignity, and the mutual respect necessary for peace and prosperity to flourish. It is not merely an ideal but an actionable, living reality that demands continuous effort and vigilance to sustain and improve.

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the ebbs and flows, highs and lows and twists and turns in it which make the journey of life more adventurous and help us grow, adapt and evolve anew bringing a sense of achievement and fulfillment.
Without the presence of family and friends life would be like traveling through barren deserts, and without diversity, life would not only be boring but also stagnant, as it is the blend of different cultures and ideas that drive innovation and our social progress.

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Whispers dangle like dewdrops
perched perilously on life’s vast,
timeworn lattice;
unsaid, they throb beneath the skin,
a ghostly heartbeat in an empty room...

//captioned//

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Is it the snow or is it just me
which is melting,
fading quietly...

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rain, a sable artist of liquid strokes,
dances upon the tired roofs—dim,
tacit confessionals
where whispers conspire in droplets.
vein-like, it trails, an osmotic script
flowing over the archives of asphalt,
slivers of light bend, refract within
each quivering puddle,
a shimmering sorrow, the fickle glass
of memory.

//captioned//

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Guardian of the threshold 'twixt
the vast sea and the sand,
with lantern-light, she holds
the night, gently in her hand.

//captioned//

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"A fog cloaking bridges between minds, obscuring clarity."

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In the quiet cradle of twilight,
Aloneness weaves its somber threads,
Dusk, a solitary painter, swathes
the sky in mournful shades.
Her brushes dipped in shadow,
streaking sorrows wide and deep,
A canvas vast, where whispers of
the night begin to seep.

Silken shadows drape the earth,
like veils of melancholy lace,
Longing, a tender specter, walks
with a haunting, silent grace.
Her eyes, two burning citadels, hold
stories never told,
In her hands, clutches tight, the
broken dreams that she enfolds.

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Speaks in the language of absence,
where the soul listens to the tales
unknown in the quiet,
trying to understand that in
the stillness lies
the profoundest sounds—the
heartbeat of inner worlds,
the breath of self-awareness, and
the whispering wisdom of the universe,
all conversing in the hallowed hush
of existence.

Silence of the soul,
plants seeds of soothing shadows,
each sprouts as a whispering bloom,
petals unfolding in mutes and murmurs,
growing under the moon’s silent sonata,
a symphony felt rather than heard,

//captioned//

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