But, poet, let
history rest in its shroud;
praise with your lyre
the grain in its granaries:
sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.
But, poet, let
history rest in its shroud;
praise with your lyre
the grain in its granaries:
sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.
A jug of wine, and thou beside me
in the wilderness,
sang the ancient poet.
Poetry is an act of peace. Peace goes into the making of a poet as flour goes into the making of bread.
Peace goes into the making of a poem as flour goes into the making of bread.
I grew up in this town, my poetry was born between the hill and the river, it took its voice from the rain, and like the timber, it steeped itself in the forests.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories