To the poets past

I listen to their distant song

unknown to me i speak their tongue

not air to breathe nor food to eat

but a box of soft tools not yet complete

the castles they made long ago in the sky

are alive with music, i know not why

why they are recalled, why their verse remains

when many have penned similar pains

I miss the lost words of those poets many

who wrote perhaps next to Byron and Shelly

The words are remembered, the rhyme we recall

But for the choice of time we would know not at all