True poetry does not die; it continues to speak to us--to our soul, if you believe in that word. A friend of mine came across this piece recently. It can not be called poetry in the classic sense: its demand for an answer is too real.

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There is something for you, but you must be able to open it. If you know your Job well, the magic will do the trick.

A
My spirit is broken,
my days are cut short,
the grave awaits me.

B
You have closed their minds to understanding;
therefore you will not let them triumph.

C
My eyes have grown dim with grief;
my whole frame is but a shadow.

D
turn night into day;
in the face of the darkness light is near.

E
if I say to corruption, ‘You are my father,'
and to the worm, ‘My mother' or ‘My sister,'

F
Will it go down to the gates of death?
Will we descend together into the dust?"

When you are done, send me your answer. The correct one will take a gift.
[email protected]

You do realize that you're going to get spammed like there's no tomorrow now that your email address is out?

Imthesixth wrote:

You do realize that you're going to get spammed like there's no tomorrow now that your email address is out?

((If Rarebit had any sense he probably set up a quick gmail account or something " />))

 <!--Redpills attempting to illegally access the mainframe are in direct violation of the Truce, and will be dealt with accordingly.-->

 <!--Redpills attempting to illegally access the mainframe are in direct violation of the Truce, and will be dealt with accordingly.-->

Roukan wrote:

 <!--Redpills attempting to illegally access the mainframe are in direct violation of the Truce, and will be dealt with accordingly.-->

Truce? What Truce? " />

Your words are more than words Persephone, but will they all know that? I have sent the required information.

(( Fun puzzle , enjoyed working it out ))