Morden Cries of An Ancient Philosopher

Ever there is, The eye has proved not enough, Stand against tough, somehow rough, Deep inside are charcoals appealing outside, Of what is seen, but not said, When my gift stands for freedom my life goes on risk, For the oppressor it becomes luck, To hit the oppressed at dusk To down and expose them to risk, From me to the many here is my task; Take courage with you and grab a disk, Every gifted hand on paper; Perhaps one of us may grab the chance, Towards the minor probability and be heard; Save no metaphor as long explained; A dim candle denotes death; In case it’s mistaken for breath; Natural law of life abused, Amused natural law of death, Move on to the Natural law of counting, And again grab a disk How many of them d’ we have; Voices of no echoes; Get it right’ do you yet know infinity? Save that for calculus, and just use uncountable, Hand on paper let the soul flow; The Spirit knows more; Lighten up the soul, let it say more, Until there is no more; Grab a gifted voice, lit up the stage, And the same goes on and on Save none but a programmed gene..