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The Writers

The writers, the men of intellect,
Need not make endeavours,
To make the heaps of books enormous,
To overcrowd the markets with the rubbish,
Just to fall in the line, row of writers,
If they bend upon to present,
The same old worn out thoughts,
Merely with the changed dress of the words,
Offering soulless philosophies,
Confining still unpulsating hearts.

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