In a draft, it all begins in a draft;

Soft wind is picking up in the white sails,

Who hears the message running in the gales?

Alone on the ocean, lost on a raft,

Who’d, for a sole win, bear a thousand fails?

But thus sparks the genesis of the craft,

There, as a helmsman on the paper aft,

The poet is walking grand celestial trails…


An incomplete sonnet.

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