The poet is the story teller of all.
Not necessarily the servant though,
because he doesn't write to serve anyone.
He write as he see,
he writes as he hears,
he writes as he thinks it should be.
Self satisfaction,
searching for happiness,
describing his love,
praying to the angels above.
Reasons are for the pen.
A quest to find how it ends.
The life of a poet is as wild as the minstrel.
No one way,
no certain direction.
His mind defines the limits.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem