What the poet knows,
I'll tell you what:
He moulds the clay of wisdom,
Fine-tunes the disruption of misconceptions.
He listens to breaking sorrows
And leans a helping arm on society.
He is the eye of the ancestors
An encyclopaedia of generations passed.
He reflects the ills of humanity
Gigantic bulldozer, bulldozing through.
He devices a language of illumination
Shining to all who understands his dialect.
He touches starvation with a helping hand,
Fighting malice with the pen as his sword.
He knows when to strike
And where to aim,
Poised for greatness
A marching warrior.
He defeats with ease
And cures with his words,
Piercing his way
Through the hearts of darkness.
A voice of change
And a voice of the earth,
Created specifically to nurture the earth.
He is born to sing and born to shout
Amidst much silence from a quiet lot.
He deciphers solution for multitudes at ease
From his warehouse of wisdom, oh man of letters.
He was created to heal
And born to lead
His devoted urchins
That roams the earth.
He bears immortality
With the tip of his fingers,
Granting at will to preserve his cause.
He speaks the bitter truth
And embraces nature
Cos within it lies
The sincerity of creation.
So skilled in his art
His fine craftsmanship,
Posing not just a poet
But an artist as well.
So much to learn
And much to envisage
From an aged treasure house
Of what the poet knows.