I saw that poet picking yesterday’s crumbs
His only possession, the typed manuscript
Dwelling in solitary habitation
With no one peeping through his window
He’s that lonely hill, far from other hills
Songs of praise never arrive at foot
He has withstood snowstorms and much rains
And that’s his staple food and strong drink
He dumps piles of papers at his door
Nay rejection notes, with more jeering
Harder than real rocks they throw at
To cover him alive with his tears!
His only possession, the typed manuscript
Dwelling in solitary habitation
With no one peeping through his window
He’s that lonely hill, far from other hills
Songs of praise never arrive at foot
He has withstood snowstorms and much rains
And that’s his staple food and strong drink
He dumps piles of papers at his door
Nay rejection notes, with more jeering
Harder than real rocks they throw at
To cover him alive with his tears!
Henry Victor 07.05.2003
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