Description

A village of poetry – inside safe kept, sacred whispers, some templars had begun to built scribes. Monumental structures that drunk on rivers of ink, and slowly splurted, onto a large white canvas before the town square. The people stared at it, day by day, as it slowly and steadily curved and carved dark forms into being.

The ink machine, it worked with no hands and people called it god. The skeptics laughed, although being jealous of the zealous templars who attended to the colossal pen’s canvas day and night. A small village, with a thousand thoughts forgotten. Only if they really knew.

A village of poetry sprouted from many things – my loneliness and a friend who said I might compile it in case the robots crushed all the binary to broth. All of the bitter, longing, sweet poetry that I was fortunate enough to have flowed out of me.

All art is prophetic, more than the author. So is this village and its storm of words, if you welcome. Hope you do stay, and I hope you get the chance to meet people familiar, or maybe even yourself here.