Some Are Sparks

Some are sparks Some are the sparks from a Parliament bonfire, That fly ever upwards to spin and whirl amongst the stars and then are extinguished, falling as a fleck of ash to lie amongst many in a grey layer, undistinguished one from the other. And there are a few, so very few, whose spark Reaches the dark sky and lives amongst the Heavenly stars that shine over centuries, Remaining undimmed, lighting our way through Life and love, and damnation of our souls. So the Bard of Avon shines above, even four centuries beyond his bones mouldering in some riverside grave, Honoured in the exhilaration of performance, In the strut and fret of hours upon a million stages, In the warmth that spreads in the breast with his words. Words. His gift to humankind. Resonances in the Fabric of minds, harmonies with our daily conversations, He speaks to our souls, to the innermost being, Our core, our culture, our language, and to the World, to all of humanity, in every place. He speaks to me and I lay myself at his feet, In awe at his facility and originality, magician Of words; and I strive to create as he Might have done, knowing that I am but a Nervous acolyte to his command. There is this insistent command from within To speak as he did, to create the elegant structure Of rhythm and word; to see the world through Eyes that comprehend the human condition, And reflect it to those uncomprehending. I strive to follow his path, but am not dismayed When my words do not follow his lead. I am not so vain as to imagine I am his heir, Yet I would wish his ghost visit me, and lay Upon his hands, that I may speak with his voice.