In the beginning was the word,
and the word was with God,
and the word was God.
God was the poet, who moulds with words the beauty of beauties.
So, there was a need to continue the king's business
God made mortal men masters in this craft;
The craft of words
The art of poetry
Man will always be man; curved rulers
A ruler not knowing why the mantle is taller than him will one day bend it to it's whimps
Scribble this Gospel to all nations
Write with lines of rhymes
baptising them in words
leaving all in estacy
making every creature gittle,
be a prophet, minister to souls
so at the mention of poetry
every kneel shall bow
and every tongue confess
that Art has got a Son.
But they would not heed
our forerunners didn't heed
For those this mantle first fell on
searched only for their kind to share their feelings.
They spoke in parables
Unknown by nature
Forbidden by creation
dishing half baked meals for all
so men had to stroll away
after being invited aromas
which poetry couldn't give.
..so poetry died from isolation
..so poetry died from been structured for few.
