If one walks with me through a garden of prose
Lonely am I still,
If my heart is gone than my words are vacant,
And my lines are cold and frail.
Not drink nor drug nor pain can drown
This silence in me now.
And if there is one true cruelty of fate
It is the theft of true words from my mouth.
Oh Shakespeare! Oh Maya! Oh saints of the verse!
Grant me one last line.
My face is young, but my soul is old
And these inimitable words are mine.