Drops of Dew

Hesitating hands

  Poetry is an expression of untamed emotions recollected in cool tranquility

  The young poet sat in his room
  Making his way through the study
  For he was no student to language, no sir
  It was science he was to groom.

  Science my sir, if you don't now know,
  That which has reason
  And art for it is treason
  And scoffs it at your sky, your snow.

  Yes he was a student of science, he was
  And he sat in his room now poring
  And yet least was he like
  Those other of his brethren.

  The songs he loved played dimly about
  And such was his disposition;
  He had his pen now posed
  To defy reason, to heart his spill.

  And he waited for the words to come
  For the emotions to have their own open way
  The same way, times before
  His heart on his hands had hum.

  But the moment came and a moment was gone
  The paper lay empty
  But for a few drop of dew.
  More than a poem stays unwritten tonight.

  Dare you call him a lousy writer?
  Dare you call him a lout!
  A fool invalid to break the reason around him
  A beggar to dare and look without.

  Renaissance they said kindled hearts
  Renaissance the same, I say has taken lives down
  Reason, has it given me a spark
  Or has another spark it drowned?

  Who shall I blame, reason or me?
  Or shall I just do away with time
  For something that was is long long gone
  Something I claim, still, was mine.