| A poet who writes perhaps knows too much | | | | too much |
| A scholar and philosopher, and perhaps a crook! | | | | ...way too much, he wants to sail away!... |
| As if life and its normal journey are not enough | | | | His emotions are like a rollercoaster; his heartin |
| Could never be enough; not even with all its | | | | the hospital, half the time; his soul wonderingfrom |
| Travels, towers, troubles, and tenderness,nor with | | | | church to mosque to synagogue, then homeagain, |
| all its adventures, its vast universe, and its ghosts: | | | | wherever that may be. He finds Godeverywhere, |
| Nor with all its wars, and higher learning | | | | so does he find the devil, neitherrest, angles are |
| universities, | | | | as busy as he, but they neverprotest: I fear the |
| Nor with all its lovers, and friends, and so many | | | | poet dies either with God, or alone; |
| Of life's confrontations; used and unused furniture | | | | Thus, a poet who writes perhaps feels too much |
| He brought to his home, along with the wives | | | | Never able to love himself as he loves, and wants |
| And children he had, with all their Christmas' and | | | | To loved; hushed, he looks on, and on and on,at |
| And toys, troubles and pains and insane days- | | | | simple things, like: hats, rats and cats, and |
| He marches to the tunes, of his country's song | | | | plants,and souls: eyes, feet and confessions, so |
| But he never sings along; he reads and writes | | | | many things,and then his children leave home, |
| From early evening to the break of dawn,that's a | | | | gone, complaining,rearranging, and saying: "We |
| poet's song. He really wants to sail away,merrily, | | | | never got enough,"they got a bone of contention, |
| merrily, far away, because nothing is quite enough! | | | | full of terrible hate,jealousy, envy and not enough |
| Thus, in-between, he gets drunk a lot, not enough! | | | | guts; they live in disgust,way, way, way too |
| And then, somewhere along the line, he thinks its: | | | | much...they want, and want and want,in |
| Time to stack it all into one big bag that is rough! | | | | abundance; but a father Poet already knows |
| How precious life was, and is to a poet, never | | | | this,he's a spy, a villain... and somehow, someway, |
| yetis it ever enough, and sometimes it's all way | | | | he just sails away...! |