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One day they woke up naked, broke and desperate with nothing left to fight or die for, so they led the way back to the heart of the city flaming every corner with the things they learned from war: giving speeches, selling dreams and harvesting the wind. When they could not wage their war anymore, they turned to be theorists crystallizing their strategy of defense by sending youngsters to war and death. They call themselves The Guardians of Literature.

They send youngsters to wage their wars, the ones they never won they want to be won now in their name. The flame they pass from their generation to ours leaving us to burn with its old flame and irrelevant fume or stay alone in the dark. They guard the door; they hold the keys and they control what may come next, but if there must be war, there must be a war to escape the old roots of conformity and lay the foundation for an individual world where everyone unites, but in their own unique way.

They can speak any language they like, but they cannot decide what should be the official language of a poem. To rhyme or not to rhyme is not a big deal, but to mean or not to mean should mean a lot to all of us. Like the emperor’s supposedly faithful servants who could not see the fabric, we cannot understand the meaning, but for the fear of being exiled out of the civilized world, we embrace the unseen and see ghosts in our world. The beauty of nothing cannot be so called, for nothing can only be nothing. Free yourselves from those Guardians, and come back; there are still some people who still speak your tongue.

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