What the Poet Knows

What the poet knows, I'll tell you what: He moulds the clay of wisdom, Fine-tunes the disruption of misconceptions. He listens to breaking sorrows And leans a helping arm on society. He is the eye of the ancestors An encyclopaedia of generations passed. He reflects the ills of humanity Gigantic bulldozer, bulldozing through. He devices a language of illumination Shining to all who understands his dialect. He touches starvation with a helping hand, Fighting malice with the pen as his sword. He knows when to strike And where to aim, Poised for greatness A marching warrior. He defeats with ease And cures with his words, Piercing his way Through the hearts of darkness. A voice of change And a voice of the earth, Created specifically to nurture the earth. He is born to sing and born to shout Amidst much silence from a quiet lot. He deciphers solution for multitudes at ease From his warehouse of wisdom, oh man of letters. He was created to heal And born to lead His devoted urchins That roams the earth. He bears immortality With the tip of his fingers, Granting at will to preserve his cause. He speaks the bitter truth And embraces nature Cos within it lies The sincerity of creation. So skilled in his art His fine craftsmanship, Posing not just a poet But an artist as well. So much to learn And much to envisage From an aged treasure house Of what the poet knows.