The little Dire 

Of less admire

The city of poets 

Who wrote daily

Of the rustic plains

Hot stifling air 

Of the dull ambience

And of Dire amidst its mere love


All went unread daily

And so day by day

Life grew colder

Slowly the ink drained

The touch of the quills slowly faded

Flowers dried before blossom


Still in Dire

The city of poets

With the sun rising and setting

The hearts never stop beating

The rivers never stop flowing

And poets picked up their quills

Wrote the poems of Dire

Less their city die


22 thoughts on “Dire

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