The Poet In Me
The world sleepeth, not I
whose rest flees when I hear the yearning cry
Like the wailing knell in the churchyard
...and Bezaleel the son of Uri within comes alive.
He teacheth my fingers to weave
Worlds bygone and coming on leaves.
I sail wherever with my disguised sceptre.
Returning with a thousand ethereal sheaves.
O Prisoner behind the bars of my soul
What gainest thee so
That thy errands hath made of me
A mortal never my dreams told?
What meanest this quest my pen doth run
Like a thirsty hart after a pond?
Night after night springs this strange lust
And every adventure is a mystery born.
The clamour of thy fiery harp
Charms my heart like honey drops
I yield as a man to the snare of a seductress
I lay my seven locks on thy laps.
It is now I who stands obsessed
Keeping you alive like a songbird.
I am holding tightly on what once was straw
And my lips branded like the psalms of the blessed.
No whiskey, rum, nor ale
Doth taste like a mug from my inkwell.
My ravished soul can no more wish for paradise
It is here, I need not sail.
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