(This is not a true story.)
The quiet quiller...
He t'was the killer.
He stalked his prey...
One fine chilled day.
He got him cornered...
Behind the shrubbery bordered.
At the East end of the house...
Just like a quarried mouse.
That quiet quiller swung the axe with maximum arc...
This being done, not at the park.
The sharp edged head, did miss it's mark...
What a lucky break in as a lark.
The axe's blade bit hard into the old Oak tree's roughened scaley bark...
The intended victim, remained hidden, until evening's risen dark.
The victim was a literary critic who accumilated the Quiet Quiller's ire...
The Literary critic was trying to silence the Quiller's artistic desire.
Revenge was the Quiller's license...
Anger was the Quiller's incense.
Remember the moral to this story:
To try to silence the genius of the artistical vision, is a mistake...
This is the bad choice, that we some times make.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem