Hunger does more miracle if not the being
That settles down among the cold winds.
We’ll arise again and till we become the light,
We’ll fail among those desires every time.
The soul says now to be the song not rhyme.
Why write with ink from our innocent heart?
Why allow the blood to flow through the pen?
Who reads these days, what books we hold?
A sad man stands at the crossroad to meet
And talk to the moon that comes after rain
To tell how clouds swim with dreams so cold.
It’s bleak or brazen or burns like a furnace,
Yes, our heart that melts with passing time.
If not, we stand tall and help wipe the tears
And bring smile to a lonely traveler’s face,
We must buy the thought and again rhyme
We have not grown but gone with the years.
The Soul's Whisper 