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.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories