The Poet's Home

The Poet’s Home

At last, after fording rivers, seas and moats,

they lay down arms outside the castle walls.

Old souls gather where the water lily floats.

.

They’ve travelled far, the music in their throats

parched dry, their fair skin scorched by desert halls:

a test, after fording rivers, seas and moats.

.

Through centuries, their many lives remote,

removed from ways that time and mind recalls,

old souls gather where the water lily floats.

.

And when their hearts have bled, their fine lips smote

silent by non-believers’ scathing galls,

they rest, after fording rivers, seas and moats.

.

Their crime, the magic in their song denotes

the way they set souls free, but still enthrall.

Old souls gather where the water lily floats.

.

But now they set aside their books of notes,

lay down their arms - their warrior wordsmith’s tools.

At last, after fording rivers, seas and moats

Old souls gather where the water lily floats.