The poet...

I dreamt of him
Last night
In his thick and warm woollen overcoat
Standing brave against the cold sweep of the breeze...
In his hand he probably had
His poem which he wrote
For the purpose so grand...

I dreamt of him last night
Standing in the biting cold
Afternoon without any warmth...
Only the poem in his hand
Held tight in the breeze not to be blown
Away by the gale
his fingers were numb...

But the poem...
His fiery one
With passions in it
Written bold...
Kept him standing...

He just kept standing...
The poem in his hand
And draped in woollens...
Strong...
Broad...
Unlimited...
Reaching above the localised weather conditions...

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