Why do poets die poor?
lured into a lonely path evermore,
forced to blossom the sweetest rose in an arid land,
heedless of the blaze of the desert's sun, the winds of sand.
Yet their Journeys still by greatness marked,
legacy's footprints their feet embarked.
Solitude's company as if an exile Moses but not the rod, the pen,
digging deep tenebrous trenches but not the grave, the ken.
copyright@2010 by Mark Anthony St. Rose. All rights reserved.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem