with each sunset the days are going
and though i've never stopped toiling
this wilderness bewilders me still
till i ask myself what comes after me
what gain there is from a poet eluded by material riches
some leave dream-quality mansions for posterity
others bequeth fabulous wealth to their progeny
and they're remembered for their bounty
but i, the poet in the family,will leave only my words
they will shed tears when my images come alive
they will say how singularly spectacular was my diction
and they will make songs out of my poetic epigrams
but they will not see in their chapped hearts
how other life was always hovering around me
how the words i invoked floated near the edges of my person
and how something huge was always on the tip of my pen