A month of poems daily, another month to come. I grip my burden gaily until the task is done. I treasure you, poetic friends, who love the words we share. Enjoy this time until it ends, and hold it close and fair.
Poets strive, driven souls aching, making words tell pain
and bliss; both burn like coals, biting hearts nearly in twain.
Onward rage, your pens confess deepest sorrow, translation dim.
While all around, the shallow press, our lot is woeful to the brim.
For understanding’s rare, indeed, the trivial world our words avoid.
They hate verse, pay us no heed, words fall on deaf ears, annoyed.
But ears that hear, hearts that bleed such inky blood we poets bear
sings through the veins of all our breed, we live: alive, awake, aware.
We can’t stop seeing with our hearts, darkest miseries, joys refined
scorch our soul with love and art, pain and glory intertwined.
And so we write and write and write, we tell the best way we know how,
in despair, or splendid flight, a faint translation page endow.
Don’t be dismayed, my writer friends, embrace your muse with passion’s voice
though weak to us the verse may end, eyes that truly see rejoice.