If I were a poet,
I would write of peace,
of bird and bees,
of flowers and trees,
but I am not a poet... it seems...
these words are from a thief!
A beggar, a pauper,
who knows not peace, but war,
for the muse is very far.
And I cannot force her will
To return to the verdant hill,
where she planted as I played;
I can only wish she stayed.
But I was abusive, you see,
I didn't help with the duties,
So she was right to leave.
But now I must be a thief!
That jumps the fence for relief
on the roots of previous harvests.
And the watchman wishes me ill,
He wishes that I leave with nil,
So he always shoots to kill.
This is my war.
To appease my hunger
To not die, I suffer
that the muse see my need of her
and return as my reliever.
this a wow! ! ! ! smooth and clean...its like a great singer that can take a song with high and complicated notes in a smooth render. i absolutely gave it a 10!
Leslie you are mis informed. You are a wonderful poet. Well written, a pleasure to read
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
you are a thief this much is true, for you steal the words that I once knew you put them here for us to read - oh how well you planted your seed. (miss you my poetic brother)