An Incomplete Meadow Song
Is it best to leave words unsaid?
Would that be the correct movement?
Is it the most soothing path to take
When an unruly heart breaks?
It is my wish to speak of a meadow song
That was never fully arranged.
Some parts came together before long,
But it was never truly ordained.
Bad weather rejected the artist proper sight,
Thus he was left to compose at night.
When it was over, the Sun was perceived too bright
To merit believing its light.
Hence, he traveled with the storm,
Selecting sorrow as treasures to adorn
His meter and fever for scorn
All through to the morning.
When he awoke, he spoke, but was unable to believe
That his words lacked coherence in the breeze.
He cursed the faraway Heavens as a fiend
And chased eternally.
Edwin Cordero's Other Poems
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Edgar Allan Poe
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(1886 - 1967)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)