The Greatest Loss Poem by Soran M. H

Alas, O poet in exile,

For long, weary years,
your words were trapped in a stagnant swamp;
the croaking of frogs and the cawing of ravens
drowned out the nightingales' song
and kept you from hearing its music.

Your poems might have soared
toward an endless, boundless sky,
had it not been for the backwardness,
the ignorance, the malice, and the hatred
of those wretched souls,
who thrive on conspiracy and suspicion—
those with diseased hearts—
forces that drove you to fight back
with the very poems
you now cradle with a wounded tenderness.

Evil came upon you
along the very road
you had tried so hard to avoid.

Alas, O oppressed poet,

Words alone could not confront
such profound and ruthless evils;
even the pen itself
was struck to the very heart.

So do not blame your words
if they failed to do justice to your poetry,
or to the vast world that awaited you—
a world in which you longed to sing for humanity
in a language uniquely your own,
a language you dreamed of forging—
unprecedented,
unheard-of,
never before conceived.

How deeply it wounded you—
how fiercely it consumed your soul—
to struggle against those malevolent forces.

Alas, O poet of freedom