Great poetry is spoilt in heroic times
That go unsung on emotional climes,
In rhythm-laden occurrences in life's
Countless merrymakings and strifes.
And so why do we say crisp verse
Comes rarer than the bluest rose?
Is not your deep-piercing tear of woe
Full of as much rhyme as its source?
But there's painful absence of a patient pen
Ready to immortalise varying deeds of men
In freshest tones and in fine-metred lines,
In memorable turns and high-troped signs.
A thousand sweet odes unspeaking lie
In your sorrow-filled text to a lost friend;
And millions of muted epics sadly sigh
In killing failures into successes turned.
Every raw impulse of life and fleeting breath
Sings one trillion sonnets on love and death.
Great poetry is spoilt in heroic times
That go unsung on emotional climes,
In rhythm-laden occurrences in life's
Countless merrymakings and strifes.
And so why do we say crisp verse
Comes rarer than the bluest rose?
Is not your deep-piercing tear of woe
Full of as much rhyme as its source?
But there's painful absence of a patient pen
Ready to immortalise varying deeds of men
In freshest tones and in fine-metred lines,
In memorable turns and high-troped signs.
A thousand sweet odes unspeaking lie
In your sorrow-filled text to a lost friend;
And millions of muted epics sadly sigh
In killing failures into successes turned.
Every raw impulse of life and fleeting breath
Sings one trillion sonnets on love and death.
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