What can they tell me? What
will they reveal- voices of
the poets dead and dying?

So I spin, a brake-less wheel
to catch the fallen phrases
each a testament to living

when living could be praised.

If I could publish dead men's rhymes,
translate dreams of all whose dreams
have gone, would life be beautiful

or ghastly details of their crimes?

This one writes of worms and dirt,
another of the cold, dark night; see
how different light becomes when

stolen from the writer's eye?

Deep into the ground the hearts
and prayers of poets grow, yet
what they left behind while living

glows and glows.

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