I know not what the falconer
would be without the falcon,
nor how miserable the fish without water.
But how life would be without poetry:
the brain would atrophy
like a burdened mind in nirvana.
If birds were without song
and I could not fly on the wings of poetry,
spirits would corrode my soul;
the seeds of my mind would asphyxiate
like hapless larvae in an airless cocoon.
Though it caresses my ears
and stabilizes my sensibilities with smoothness like silk,
a dose of one line steels my spirit:
rhyming my life with rhythms of creativity
as I become a god into eternity.