THE POET VAGABOND

Fed up I’m of muddy brooks
And flowers of a bitter smell,
My hands are tied in knots,
And thoughts disturbed to tell:

Sadness is a ruler of joy,
Its crown lures a lonely stream,
For one to know solitude,
It’s a poet of an infinite dream.

Loneliness is a sweet vine,
It cures the virtue of time,
But maze of a well known wit,
Keeps mute like a child’s crime.

The Sun is offering shade,
While the ground is preparing a grave,
And an angel is awakening the poet.

For the journey of eternity to pave.

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