The Poet’s Home

At last, after fording rivers, seas and moats,
they lay down arms outside the castle walls.
Old souls gather where the water lily floats.

 

They’ve travelled far, the music in their throats
parched dry, their fair skin scorched by desert halls:
a test, after fording rivers, seas and moats.

 

Through centuries, their many lives remote,
removed from ways that time and mind recalls,
old souls gather where the water lily floats.

 

And when their hearts have bled, their fine lips smote
silent by non-believers’ scathing galls,
they rest, after fording rivers, seas and moats.

 

Their crime, the magic in their song denotes
the way they set souls free, but still enthral.
Old souls gather where the water lily floats.

 

But now they set aside their books of notes,
lay down their arms - their warrior wordsmith’s tools.
At last, after fording rivers, seas and moats
Old souls gather where the water lily floats.

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