My son,
My daughter,
Do not count your days,
To hold them for others to see
For every tree drops their blossoms,
That others partake of their fruit
And oh how tasty that fruit proved to be,
For poetry is a tree
My poetry,
Make your days count,
Your children are your poems
Do not multiply your offspring,
For the sake of outshining the sun,
For who can look it for more than a glance?
Yet, poetry is the Sun
My forefathers,
They are considered the greats of old
Some having only a handful of testimonies
Yet, their hearts were gathered in baskets,
For all to see,
For what we see is poetry
All in all,
They sought not glory,
Yet they were led along with inspiration,
And they were willing to wait for it
Their trees would drop their blossoms,
And so others enjoyed their fruit
And so their days were counted by others,
Their children’s names have been remembered
The one child making a name for himself,
Makes a name for his father,
And oh, how humble is that name
For true poetry is humility
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