(About a 1 minute read)
Words for all the tender seeds who in their winter do not yet see they are to bloom as a fragrant rose.
I did not say your poetry was great,
That it roared and struck,
Plunging fangs into my neck.
Nor did I say it screamed
As it died, a defenseless child.
No, you misunderstood me, you see,
For I am honest and say
I am no competent critic of poetry.
But I have eyes that see deep,
Deep into people and their talents.
Eyes that see so deep
They see beyond tomorrow,
Can spot a rabbit
Before it becomes a bear,
Spot it like an eagle
From on high.
And I can stoop on talent so fast
My triumphant screams of discovery
Are carried from today
To be heard even years
Latter in your future,
Long after I have passed,
As by then your memories.
No, I said you
You’ll still need luck,
And you’ll still need practice.
Or you will bleed out before your time.
So promise me now,
Promise tomorrow’s dead man:
You will not fail my vision,
You will not betray it, but you,
You will practice with passion
And tenacity until you know
How to rip luck from the clouds
And make it lash rain and strike lighting
To revive and rebith people’s souls.
Promise me, tomorrow’s dead man.