The Poet's Soul
The sturdy pen sits in a pool of blood;
A scarred piece of paper writhes in pain;
The scabbed hand tries to rise
With a wish to write again...
Across a river of words, not long back,
The Warriors had weaved a wondrous wall;
Wherefore is lost the forgotten lore
Of Strength that stood them firm and tall?
Making desperate efforts to stand,
Over they rise, again to fall;
For however much they try to rhyme,
They cannot rhyme with life at all...
'tis now the poet's Soul that must bring forth another
song:
His heart and sinew may have stopped now, but not for
very long...
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