The melody of the poet for the soul to please,
with its chords of truth in spoken breeze.
There can be no freedom which is attached by the ego’s ear,
no serenade’s art and temporary clear.
One must smite the melody of fact rudely and hard,
as they may smoothly manipulated and render back.
Poetic thunder needs to rumble to convey,
with the pulse of courage in heart like pray.
The master of time knows how to strike the prophetic clock,
to beat the hollow hypocritical rock.
The bleached garden for the pomp in all flair,
attracting only a vertical vision glare.
The night in sparkling light orchestra at hand,
has the silence which speaks for itself of the holy land.