In my singing years
I was the most astounding
youth and lyre
that one could hear
in these surroundings.
But ever since my drowning,
I was no more allowed
to leave this prison-flower,
made of barren stalk
and luminous scent,
as consequence of a sentence
laid out against the progeny of covet.
So, you can say, as a poet,
I also knew confinement inside a tower,
locked alive in a cushioned-room of mine.
However, whereas poets have always been singing
more than nearly necessary,
it was also my doom that my voice grew mute,
thereby rendering me deprived of the power
to stir the bush of fire named desire.
I argued an early spree cannot be the judge
of the strength a plant might attain,
nor could it take blame for the flavours its fruits
may produce. My punishers were deaf to any such claims
and set me as an example for oncoming men.
Thus my lot as that of my kind
was loneliness and everlasting echoing silence,
just because man have always been meant to,
and lamentably meant to
suffer its force and not be able to harness it,
and aim at synthesis,
without ever being fit
to change the course of things and be both halves
of that torn fruit
which goes by two.
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