A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.


Fancy not thine own addictions
As dear to me,
Nor that gently whispered almanac,
As clear,
For in that majestic place
Where difference is forged,
I am sovereign and whole,
And if that place were not to be,
Then I am thee, and thou art me.


Reason ploughs her endless furrow,
Dormant seeds already sown,
That a gentle sun may warm the heart
Of sleeping truths, already known.