O the Wandering Poet
The master poet lives in countless sorrow,
In soaring drought, the master explains;
How he bought and sold himself for
Food to eat, how he wandered the heavens
And the moors.
Countless times he wandered like great things
And the deepest dark, and hearts unfurling.
Shadows wave like forgotten things,
And I am here, but not again.
I am the master poet, and I am gone;
Interspersed with sorrow and wandering loner,
I eat my fill but I am not fulfilled.
Time is waning, like a child,
And justice and education are not bitter in coming.
Sometimes I eat soup just to please my belly,
But in my mind, there is none.
The master poet goes to the shadows of yore,
And the marks of angels are upon me.