As I am one wretched and gold in mind
the earth did bear me this great crime:
born I was with the scent of life
too brilliant, too vivid for a normal sight.
I tried to run, and run I tried
but the shadow of my soul did chase me through
the desert of my mind and peaks of earthly thought
and now I rise to meet my master, my crime.
The movement of all souls is no small task.
As from the earth I rose and to the earth I die,
but while embraced I shall sing great outcry.
Live language! And let the poets ring
for in the pen shall come the dawn of spring.
The written word is like a golden dove.
She hunts the dawn and finds the birch of love,
and rests upon my hand in silent bond.
For in her eyes I see the heavens part
the starry realms of dark and death
until the mist of hate does wend.

I see a thousand stars shine light
and dance within the chorus of might.
The poesy shall rise like a great wight
and shout the glory of ten thousand skies.
Her mantle is an ivory cloak of sight,
her eyes are the aspect of wise old eyes.
Her tears do equal floods the gods cast down,
her happy laugh burns like the desert hound.
One day, the poesy will rain and stain
with floods of fantastic flame and shame,
and all shall know the beauty of the pain.
Poesy in her bright glade
does count the leaves that fall in autumn's shade.
In all the years of her mysterious ways
the leaves are silent ones of fame,
for on the leaves she scribes the beautiful mane
of language as a foolish dame.
But even as the dame counts bronze as gold
the magic of poesy reigns on.
For in silence she blames the music for the rain.

And when she falls, I shall give cry!
Let me be fallen for her blight!
I am the conquest and the wight
who churned the winsome to such plight.
And let me be a model to all,
for as I fall let others rise
and save the drought of dismal death
from shackling poesy in her drowsy chains.
You are a beautiful creature, oh Poesy.
And in the darkness you shine the light of lights.
The darkness cannot ponder your flight, so fly dear poet, fly!
Rumble the ocean and storm the plain.
Blister the desert and hunt down your pain.
Let poets of her fall come rescue her
within the chains of silent thought.
Do not fear!
The language of our soul shall mount us far
and launch our poetry to great heights
where none shall touch and none shall dare
to harm the brilliant vision of her great snare.

The savior of the earth shall be in fire
of verse enchanted with the soaked shire,
and angels shall proclaim its blessed gate
into the silver halls of eternity's hour.
I ask you simply, shall you know the truth
when like a blazing savior by the versed come
to free to slaves of tyranny's bad bond
and lift them to the heights of fancy?
The truth of verse is that it frees our soul
of her raw chains of the distasted world.
This world, which whips and strips our golden mind
and bronzes us to slaves of little will
but to follow blindly the great wave and still
our hearts from breathing breathtaking hills.
The verse shall be our savior and our separate world
that glitters forgotten by the world - but not our hands.
And we shall grasp the verse and breath full life