Poet! You who claim this badge, you who fight your mortal fate, for fame to thrive beyond your time might carry you, therefore, along.
Speak of this time, poet... speak of this time. Speak fierce of all that ails, besets the age we dwell.
Your words are lost on me in generations come, now they are hollow as I read their latent truths unborn.
Their promise flirts, seductively, yet beckons from a place too far some future sped without me hence and left here, in this time's malaise.
You court those yet too young to lust, to play upon your instrument, or drink from your drunk words, distilled you love upon those not yet grown.
When all along, I stand denied your look, askance, when to my way drives sharp the pain of my neglect - not nourished, so this hunger burns.
What draws your thoughts forward from this? Impatient force channelled from far, far from the dusty relevance, far from our pallid dismal now.
Our praise not worth yet faint regard affections lost like muffled cries, by ears deafened by morrow's blare. Is it so sweet to call you thence?
Or do you tread some barren scape, thoughts stolen by those great ones, past who, like you, thought themselves ahead or wished outshow proud breeds to come?
I dare to wake you from your dream to shake you free from future's grasp so you may once again sit with us here and feast with us upon this now.
So, speak of this time, poet... speak of this time. Speak fierce of all that ails, besets this age we dwell.
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Poet! You who claim this badge,
you who fight your mortal fate,
for fame to thrive beyond your time
might carry you, therefore, along.
Speak of this time, poet...
speak of this time.
Speak fierce of all that ails,
besets the age we dwell.
Your words are lost on me
in generations come,
now they are hollow as I read
their latent truths unborn.
Their promise flirts, seductively,
yet beckons from a place too far
some future sped without me hence
and left here, in this time's malaise.
You court those yet too young to lust,
to play upon your instrument,
or drink from your drunk words, distilled
you love upon those not yet grown.
When all along, I stand denied
your look, askance, when to my way
drives sharp the pain of my neglect -
not nourished, so this hunger burns.
What draws your thoughts forward from this?
Impatient force channelled from far,
far from the dusty relevance,
far from our pallid dismal now.
Our praise not worth yet faint regard
affections lost like muffled cries,
by ears deafened by morrow's blare.
Is it so sweet to call you thence?
Or do you tread some barren scape,
thoughts stolen by those great ones, past
who, like you, thought themselves ahead
or wished outshow proud breeds to come?
I dare to wake you from your dream
to shake you free from future's grasp
so you may once again sit with us here
and feast with us upon this now.
So, speak of this time, poet...
speak of this time.
Speak fierce of all that ails,
besets this age we dwell.
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