The Poet From the East

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.