Can you imagine the weight of such time?
The crushing inertia of thousands of years?
Like Atlas's burden, the words and the rhymes
Of numberless forebears will not disappear.
The stone has been deeply and boldly engraved,
Far harder to change than the stroke of a pen,
For centuries' poets did not write enslaved
By paper; their pad was the fabric of men!
And now, in an age with a dwindling mind
That scatters by hours of flickering lights,
A Bic-pen swirls patterns so true to their kind,
But empty of hearers, they silently fight.
For battle this is, for a much greater cause
Than that championed chiefly by medial fears.
Their world is without, thus they only find loss
In external misfortune and hope in their peers.
I tell you the struggle cannot be en masse!
Each soul must establish dominion within,
And then can the Kingdom of wisdom surpass
And be built here, with peace flowing forth from all men!
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