Poetry is the silent cry of a thousand hearts,
A wildfire of feeling that scorches the page.
For the poets, it is not a mere white horse—
But a thunderbolt wrapped in wings,
A force that cracks open the sky
And lets the raw light of dreams come pouring in.
No timid whispers, no fragile lines—
Only the hammer-strike of truth,
The molten gold of language
Forged in the furnace of the soul.