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Flowing and ebbing are tsunamis of radicalism

Wetting the many-hued mercenaries of thought

With lustful traces of a guerilla fighter

Erasing the very essence of footprints 

That were carved by the chisel-head of time

Where in-between the aura of Che and the shadow of a saint

Lies a mortal in every dimension

Searching for the oxygen of freedom

Driving an old vintage motorcycle

Yet scripting a diary entry each day, on folios of history

With a rebel’s heart that will never be leased or sold

To the deep pockets of banality

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