A Poet’s Song

Shayan's Sphere

As poet I may not acquire a name
In the insoluble pages of time,
Nor ever get renown, nor earn acclaim
With the tremendous potency of rhyme.
You may immerse my lines in rancid grime
And put on my serenity all blame,
Or shove in a hollow I can not climb
With my heavy loaded body in shame.
But midst all aches, taunts and leaden dire days,
There’s hope that doth say: art shall be on way!
And words shall sing blithely till my poor death,
Putting their soothing touch in each hot breath.
And though at last I’ll die without my fame,
I’ll be proud I’ve seen inward fair flame.

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