The Very Existence of Our Soul
Being absent even for an hour, day or week,
and not write and post anything...can make days look bleak,
some find worthiness in words and challenge themselves
to confront fears and doubts, or share their joys with new-found friends.
To us poetry is the very existence of our soul, which glorifies grace
in all its virtues through the art of writing...an art older than love itself,
so some thought of using this devise to express what the heart really felt...
and what came out of it amazed all and quickly spread to distant lands.
Weren't I not a keeper of its illumination, or a humble poet in contemplation,
I wouldn't be lured by a pen to extract ideas from my clattered head
or search for fresh ideas to be turned into thoughts and strip them of illusion...
as I frolic into a labyrinth where secrets unveil themselves at my command.
It's needless to say to ourselves that poetry isn't the very existence of our soul:
lovers couldn't open up their hearts and talk tenderly as if they were going to pray;
no composer, painter, lyricist, poet or philosopher could see Nature in a realistic way...
poets outnumber drug users, wouldn't God rejoice and break down another wall?
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