As thick-skinned shadows start to breed
With their toxic voices and actions loud
They are like a rotten and reckless seed
That drowns the quiet fields in the flood.
But the gentle streams of noble grace
Refuse to mingle with the dismal mire
They simply turn away their shining face
And quench their urge of angry fire.
Gentlemen fight not the howling night
Nor mimic the words of the hollow stone
They fold their wings in silent flight
To guard a sacred peace, all alone.
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