The Masters
(Sev Meyer)
In forthright hands, with quill-ed pen
Or sable brush, to aptly lend
The proper touch to an idea
Did those of letters line the page
Frame the work, strike the chord
Time and again and for all time
With the sage gamut of emotion.
Our narrowed eyes and timid minds
Products of a flashy life
Continue to consume the scrawl
The textured art, the music; all
Of those who came before a time
When introspection fell apart.
And now we crowd to look behind
To generations long dismissed
And view their life-works treasured still
To educate the present mind.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem