From The Parting Pages Of Shakespare. Poem by Ebi Robert

Long I left this room of rhymes
Where verses bought my pens
A Price-tool that seems priceless
But full of ink-prices-dress

Where a lord, a noble and a king
Read of the rhymes I bring;
Where the table is set of a writer's ten
A fat pen plumping a poet's pen'

The rebirth is the spring of an offspring.
Better I don't swear and loss my hair.
Better I don't drink from a vow's spring,
Better I don't swear and loss my hair,

Better I don't hide and stand fully naked,
Like those Adams in their Eden.
Better I don't wonder and be fainted
And be near death by then.

That I know is true; that I grow is a growth.
That I flow in my soul makes me a sacred soul,
This is my load, this is my growth.
This is my head under a coal.

This is my head under a coal
Oh! Weary soul put in a hole.

Summer sank and sang me once before I died.
For times are ever no waiting,
But Stories ever telling, Music singing,
Sound summer verses ever tied.

Poets are called to write News in the sky
Muse masked thoughts that never come by
One sky to birth; the rebirth to write
One wise and pen ready to write

Do I fail to let my pen lie?
Beneath the scroll, ancient deny?
Do I let my ink pour the ground-?
And offer my lips: do-d-hand?


Kill, kill my stanza-shield
And reap from a thousand mester's field
Pregnant are the woods
After reading the minstrel's tones

Still, still stealing are those who steal
They are replica of how they heal,
A Regalia; same of an English man
Speaking their lines as they can

But there are many who heal like thee
Unique, different just like me
There are many who shall be
The versifiers of now and thee

O' morning grave shall bury youth
With the moon mourning to eat the tooth
O' Evening stars shall we write
And speak and speech from left to right

Thou, parting pages of time
Can we sing thou as a hymn?
Thou ancient verse and wise
Canst thou hose my knowledge wise?




THE END

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