Mist

Am I a stupid flatterer or a poet? Am I a courtier or a democrat? As I breathe freely without help So I write my own grief, without help Many frustrated and cried, I know For the name and fame and game And those who acquired, I know How steered the bout with helm What language does have the pain? I know who lays the egg, cock or hen I haven’t seen the tears on the faces I haven’t heard the cries of masses I swam on their curious lovely puny eyes Saw there in ocean, the motley of sighs’ When all the eyes had a hope of surprise Then I myself became the eyes and raise Though I know path is thorny Yet I bleed from heart through my foot It sounds unpleasant and irony All think, from flower, me a shoot