The Sheets Of My Verses

Ah! my Monsignor below The sheets of my verses Read, think and read For thought is of the verses And Night is of their culture And emotions there be Synthesized and melt In the foundry of the brain. And the glow of sleepy Cemeteries betrays That they too are As of the verses. So the Poet Seer viewing This; his power realizes Sings more and more And verses line the murals Of the immense heavens Though The throat of the Poet Seer Grows dry as he goes on However bravely at a point His elongated verses Stop to rest. Think, my Monsignor, think Think.