The Poets

 

The Poets

  

There are many poets:

 

One, born of earthly concerns,
Juggling fashioned syllables
To charm a world gallery.
And one, heaven-free,
Singing beyond the binding
Preserve of common style
And fancy attire.

 

One who speaks in silent tears
And deafening laughter.
One who hears the whispers
Between the lines.
One who translates
Into the language of the crowd.
And one who writes
The sweet-bitter lyric of life.

 

One who looks to the past,
Lost in time, dusting shelves.
One who dreams the future,
Where no-one has trodden,
And the surface still shines.
Still another, who carefully listens
To the echoes of the now.

 

Or, has there only ever been
One true poet and versifiers many?

  


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