whose bones are better left to flake, to rot;
whose body's sap should to the earthworm's lot
be given, and be of use to worthy rule.
wide-eyed, always you see me here sitting
'neath this lovely shade, near these blades of grass;
just writing, the soil not endeavoring
to loose, that roots may their curled numbness pass.
so you loathe, and cursing this luxury,
wonders how God could keep such fool as i,
who know nothing but to sit, to write madly,
as if Time, Golden Time, would never fly --
ah, fiery rage bothers me not, for i,
Worthless, ever His works will glorify.
2 comments:
To ridicule a poet is much akin to stepping on a butterfly. Love needs freedom to express.
In Lak' ech, my brother Sito, love...
brother chris, oh what an apt imagery you have used. a butterfly so delicate being stepped upon. how cruel! and yes, poets must endure, even if some do not appreciate what they do. there are a lot of things that need be said, delicately but forcefully, and poets were gifted the heart to do this .. thanks for visiting.
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