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A night in Shantiniketan

Silence was the conductor,
Of an orchestra called nature.
The rhythm of our footsteps
Was a cue for a bird to hit a crest.
Sometimes,
an octave of a twig snapping,
Or the breeze playing a symphony
As it rustled the fallen leaves.
The breeze hits a crescendo.
The rusted hinges of the derelict gate
Sounds a high pitched note in tow.
The murmer of the leaves then,
Disturbs the fireflies
and sets them aflame!

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