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