At the well of my muse,
To put my pen in line for lyrics against you,
Yet you provided me suitable dictions despite my intention,
And breathed in your breath of over flowing rhythms in me.
When i wailed my tongue against you,
And shattered your name with my pen,
You provided me with yet another pad
And refreshed my muse to sing the unsung song of my dreams.
You never seized my thinking nor an end to my reasoning.
When i proved myself to be your foe,
You fought for me like I'm your ally.
I built fortresses around myself just to keep you off,
You kicked them down like wrecking balls against the walls.
I hid myself in fogs away from you,
Yet you brought me out to clarity yet from another fog.
I am like the tale of a tree planted in the midst of rivers,
For every season will be favourable,
I'm the lost sheep, Leaving the ninety-nine behind,
Yet seeking for one, the only me.
TEE-THOMAS (Fearless Lines)
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem