Maybe it was the stars at night
that triggered my poetic flight.
Maybe it was the heat of fire
that made my soul aspire.
Maybe it was the cold wind from the north
that brought my dexterity forth.
Or a simple thought
was the reason I sought
my poetic self
Poems in the past I've only read few
English for me five years ago was new.
The question that I so desired to answer dwelled in me
What was so powerful, so pure about words that I could see?
Why poems? why words?
Why make symbols and shapes that were surd?
Like an expertly fabricated polyphony.
It was the meaning, the effort, the value
It was the trueness, the language, the power
That rendered the simplest mind
full of color and rhyme.
It was the vastness and clarity
that was gained by such rarity
It was the rhythm, the pace
the way the words flowed with grace
That I was able to comprehend
The splendor words could fend
The might language could harness
The power that thought could harvest.
Few poems I've read
A myriad I will write
For depicting the enigmas of my mind is my right
Therefore, I will not cease my voyage until I'm dead.