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Poem
It's true that I was in town
When the trumpet sound
And soldiers came down
Spilling like ants on the ground:
Heralding the royal feast!
The Gods have had their seats
To celebrate the poet from the east
Whose lyrical prowess beats
The best they've ever heard.
It is heavenly inspired:
The lines of this bard,
His hands neither slack nor feel tired.
Here, the bard comes
Clothed in divine grace!
Let the trumpet sound; beat the drums
Let the world seek his face
For he has the power to heal.
His lines drew angels down
And make kings to kneel.
Let him have his prized crown.

Such is the power of poetry,
It is universal; devoid of bigotry.
It is the king's treasure,
It is a soldier's pleasure.
In that stately estate,
In that heavenly state,
Only to the brave
Would the sky be a grave.

It's true that everyone would die
Someday, that is why
If ever the poet should die;
Let his pen ascend to the sky,
Let heaven and earth mourn,
Let their tears turn to blood;
Let the graceful muses mourn,
Let their tears cause a flood
For the loss is without measure.
But there's end to every beginning
That's why the poet we should treasure
So that if he dies, he dies smiling.
Let the fire from his pen burn
First, in the heart of men
Then to the streets let its face turn,
Let it scorch the land till when
It has reached the palace and its tower
There too let it burn and smoke;
Let it bring every knee under its power,
Let it bring every neck under its yoke.

Such is the power of poetry,
It is universal; devoid of bigotry.
It is the king's treasure,
It is a soldier's pleasure.
In that stately estate,
In that heavenly state,
Only to the brave
Would the sky be a grave.

It's true that poets can be made
As much as they can be born,
There are those who trade in charade;
Who cannot our admiration won.
Behold the ancient bard!
Behold, in the morning he rises
With his book and ink in hand;
As sparkles flash from his eyes.
When in early morning birds are yet mute,
His countenance is always plain
He does not argue nor refute
But undisturbed he always remain!
In the abode of the poet
There is grandeur and majesty
Befitting a grand laureate poet
And a monument of modesty;
He is the poet at heaven's gate
Who have ran a fine race
He will never be late
He holds the ace.
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