The gift of word.

Our tongues and lips will yearn
for the gift of speech,
our speech in turn for phrase,
the poet meets the storyteller
and both will stand bereaved
of talent, style and grace.

New goblets wheel the world around,
but will stand doubtless,
in your town, your house and base,
my old wine will sure be missed,
in the empty goblets being held
in our hands, our life and age.

I, of course, did restless toss,
sleepless at night, tired at day,
ever since I left my pace,
my homeland too must have missed,
my wittiness and way of words
and this exiles unfortunate grace.

To that we owe the lamps of love,
lit with true heart’s fire,
burning bright in every gaze,
the world will yearn for the man of art,
for the woman of skill,
who once did fill the stage.

But if the cruel wind of times,
that blows once north, once south,
continues so to sway,
then earth wil lie drained of water,
sky emptied of clouds
and sun deceived of rays.

So change the gardener if you can,
or dig the earth yourself,
otherwise the growth in vain,
you'll look for the rose and cypress,
for the crawlers and the climbers
and their cooling shade.

And finding shade, our tongues and lips
will find the gift of speech,
our speech will find the phrase,
the poet and the storyteller
both will keep it sound and safe
with talent, style and grace.