|
Dost thou behold imperfection in my words?
Wanting are they against thine perfections,
Sharpened sharper than many armed swords,
Thine thrive, to masterly pens give reflections.
Dost thou find me fighting for what's fought,
Writing in vain to void what pens did tell us,
In dreams for all, all ending up to my nought,
Spending time to break time's false compass?
Thou bespeak'st but much worthier a worth;
Than thy eyes now see and thy ears do hear,
Thus to reach eternity from this lonely earth,
Let not the ticking death thy sweet art endear.
Endow each earthling with more than thy face,
With brush or pen, all barren minds do lace.
|
'Twas but a tale, count it true or count it false,
It tells much to she, who has eyes not to see,
To hear as to Shakespeare's lines do endorse.
There is a task to hear and in secret given thee.
From that Writer's soul thou holdst a great sum,
For who else can bring stars down onto the sea,
Or be the beauteous queen of art in a small slum,
'Gainst oblivious time with such immortal plea?
Thou viewst but as self-willed Time doth wish,
Thy limit is thee, nor masters, nor time itself,
It's thee who bars such sweet wit to flourish,
From flourishing, waking in every one, one self.
As words so gazed upon all do try to thee tell,
Water thy trees with ink, or ere long they fell.
|
|
Muse to all earthly hues, make silence once,
Let me impart the sentence of a court to thee.
'Tis from a story, from earth's date to nonce,
Stated for pens guided by those who do see;
Erst wert there one writer writing to do praise,
And a society so keen on being much praised,
Writer died and his hungry soul wanted to raise,
His lover cried and told "Let him not be erased"
Mage of the death hearkened her sound tears,
Summoned a court in the middle of the town,
From the wise, the fair, and those with fears.
"Accept this" they said "and he'll be thy own.
Writer shall never be guided by thee the daily star,
Or he variation and we praise will lack and par."
|
Time, the most experienced player of universe,
Plays with thee Word's one most witted mage.
Nor a glass is enough, nor this my barren verse,
To show thee its youth despite its unknown age.
The sweetest of foods is its; it eats sweet skill,
Thus is its face never old, it is young with saps.
From moods to moods it rides, for selves to kill,
None can keep pace with it, nor draw it on maps.
Once the wind carrying seeds to new grounds
It plays, or a May rain to nourish May's buds,
Once the snow leaving all the leaves in pounds
It plays, or a Winter gust to freeze earthly muds.
Thou hast two choices, and the choice is thine,
Befriend it, or watch it, thee in this Earth confine.
|
|
His lover just wanting to see the Writer again,
Uttered many a just of injustice enfeebled,
Then thought whate'er the case a gain is gain,
Recried "He in me will not be remembered!
With arrows adorned with such blinding flame,
His brightest colours, I in his hands will burn,
Eyes will thence see him not run but do lame,
In love's path from lover to a hater he will turn.
His each word will be a lake of distilled feeling,
All lacking me, all much filled with thee in part,
Beneath my daily lights he will be in kneeling,
Anight his pen a sword, swung by his own art.
With his face I will be cured, but thou I curse,
His art will be black, thus alack thus much worse."
|
Thou art to create, create much with thine art,
Steal moments from Time with thy skilled brush.
I know; many souls ere creating have to depart,
But thine is just not so, it can stand Life's rush.
Or with thy pen, pen each bud inside thy heart.
When thou eyest upon the ink looking so black,
To create, to differ, to behold remember thou art.
Not to be beguiled, to self-deceive or hues lack.
These are my words of advice for thine in reply;
Thou mayst think, yet thoughts need one's care,
When thou thy fair matters not on papers apply,
Time, for more food, will them off thy mind pare.
Be! For such sweet art shall never meet an end.
Be! For I need to be wise and this false self amend.
|