From the midnight of his passions
That courses through his veins
From the whispers of the wind
That call out his name
From the halls of imaginations
He does not understand
Can this be, is it wisdom
What it is that guides his hand
He picks up William Shakesphere
And Longfellow he too
And Robert Frost reads word for word
For what they were meant to do
Somewhere in the midnight
Sometimes only candle light
What it is that drives him on
So shall push his pen to write
With the lay of pen and paper
And as he writes as so I do
He knows now what he truly is
A poet he writes for you.
Copyright 2005 Bill Simmons
aka BillWilliamStar@aol.com
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem