The Song of the Poet

Das Lied des Dichters

Mysteria Poeta
Non Silentia
Non Blasphemia
O Domina mea!
Poeta magna, Ex Roma
In Lingua Latina

The name of the Poet unknown
Is shown through the words of
His own: The mystery's lable
Upholds the age of the Poet's
Stronghold. From seven to eight
Sylables still shall the Poet speak,
Until the sun restores the day of
His beak.

Oh Great and marvellous language
You, an organ of the Poet, being able
To speak in no less than three hundred
Worlds without pausing his own fold,
Neither in German do you stop, nor in
English, even in Romanian do ye give
Bargage even in the tongue of the pirate.

From the first teil of the Latin language
Shows already the brief explaination of
The English language, seeing it in the Poet's
Face, the German language is no different
From the days of its own age, but oh how
Many languages can the Poet reveal? Lo,
His own mothertongue has no power to
To cease his passionate field..

TEIL two: The Epic of the Infamous Alien

Behold how I admire three other worlds,
With no smilitarity to that of his own
Lords! He being able to create a world
Of his own, with a good tongue and a wise
Land, give now the difference between the
Poet and the god Zeus.

An Alien he is to his own tongue, why does
He do the work of other aliens and speak
An unknown tongue? Behold he plays God!
Oh cease from your foolish scorn shouts the
Poet, for I am free to wander different lores!
O I pity you prisoners of self culture, for the
Free man doth call you self destroyers!

TEIL three: The goddess Rhytmias

Every culture upholds a god, even a
Tongue praises a goddess, but what
Slays me most is that the Poet worships
All gods from across his own pen.
A goddess hath a poet and her name according
To the Poet: Rhytmias the daughter of Veritas.

Rhytmias that glorious goddess requires not
The eye to see her glorious dress, but desires
The ear to hear her wonderful share, I dare
All men to critize not the spacing of the hand-writting
But to see Rhytmias' share of bringing beauty
In a paper full of myterious glares.

TEIL four: The Joyful Hand and the Crying Eyes

As the Poet speaks of epic mysteries, so doth
His very eyes speak of crying epicis, while
As his hand writes therefore the epic of their
Grief, fear not! Spoke the Hand, For I shall cleanse
The paper from his rotten stare! Continued the
Hand, I cry therefore replied the Eye, For beneath
My back lies a crack continued the Eye......

Let therefore proclaimed the Poet release the
Grip of his eye's tears, for from his passion is found
Not only in the peer of Epics but also in the scream
Of his sadistics: Not a word of joy can be searched in
His paper, for when an Epic of sadness journeys
Along, even his eyes carries a bow. Let not this
Discourage you, for one writes not in order
To scorn.

Smile declared the Poet! For no more is the storm
Of the gore, there is happiness a foot, when love
Is your sure, I laugh said the Poet, even the hand
Dances in the name of the Clarinet! When there is
No Instrument around, music is still heard, and
When there is no clapping sounds, a herd of mouths
Are laughing about!  This is the glory of the Poet,
The storm he can cease and the joyful sun he can
See, for whether there is snow, he can still swim
Though beneath the coldest shore, this is the mystery
Of the Poet, that everything is Epic in his lore.