He was born with a builder's hands,
But has a poet's heart,
In reality he is a slave,
But in his mind he is free,
The shackles, they bind him to these lands,
They exist, but they are not for us to see,
For they are mental constraints, and they cannot be shaken loose.
But there is freedom in all things, even in slavery,
We cannot see this though. He can.
He's different from us. Where we see endings and walls, he sees milestones,
Who is this man, who will wait for the night, till the cold claims his bones?
Who is this man, who prefers the night to the day for it bears the audience of the stars?
Who is this man, who knows not the art of speech, but makes men cry with his words?
Who is this man, who gazes upon a girl and sees not a girl, but a universe and perfection?
Who is this smith who craft's blades strong but forges hearts adamantine?
He is a wordsmith.