It was along the ancient rivers
Where the waters break themselves against
The stones, smooth and polished,
Among the seedlings called words.

In thought, well let us call it mythic
Theory, the river was exposed to the thirst
Of the first men, those who wished an
extension of themselves to the universe.

With a constellation to start them with,
The first Word arose after the first man
Drank from it, the word was Hope
and he picked a small star to mark the moment.

The river was infested with verbs and metaphors,
The man was thirsty for words and description,
He drank with mermaids and sea creatures
From the magnetic water that dripped with life words.

Once he had his share, before he became a poet,
He had to learn a lesson important to being
What he so desperatly wanted to express,
The touch of a woman.....

On a night that was felt as though ten moons
Across, he lay with a first woman as he repeated
The first word into his heart, Hope, the audacious
Nature bother heartfelt and genuine.

And the next day as the sun spring forth the light,
He woke alone and a sudden cold entered,
His passion untamed, his heart recognizes
the abyss, and he began a song of words.:

He who belonged to no one,
Suddenly belongs to the word,
The word was his foundation
And the magic was born in a sullen pain.

A poet was born from a river,
The words a passionate abyss,
The perfect pattern from God,
The verse was born from his heart.