Dozing the life in worthless ink:
It is the ink that calls forth something
Deeper hurling itself forth from
The depths of everything that is
   You Poet,
          You Poetess.
Your thoughts that gallop and gallop
As your you birth inklings but fill
Nothing and return to stagnant water.
    
A second ago your poem had
A hundred hearts that cheered
And the words were over their faces
As the rootless poem of me, me ,me
Was given and the lightning was
Given out of habitual commonality.
    
I invite you dig up Rage!

Rage, not only against the dying
Of the light,
For yesterday is tomorrow's
Memory, tomorrow is today,
I invite you not to die of death,
     But to die of life!
Fill the words with rage,
That of the current event that
Moves nations, birth the poem
Of sacrifice, become the metaphorical
Martyr, you are a Poet Saint!
Rage,
    Deep in the immense crystalline
    Soul that cries to fill the void,
Become the tree firmly rooted
But still dances with the fury
Of the wind!
Rage,
   Speak the truth of the world,
   Fight with words of the inequality for
   Those that cannot speak,
   Become their rage!
Rage,
   There a homeless child
   With no lucky star of her own,
   And the words will fill you,
   They will devour the abyss
   And you will rage against
   The flowering of nothing's bloom!!
Rage,
   Dig deep and see the world
    With words that become differences,
    With a shining of the light
    Where darkness was before,
Rage,
   And the words will become you,
   The poet and the sacrifice,
   So be it if the poem only has
   Two hearts, unpopular as it
   May seem, it is a reflection
   Of the guilt they carry.
Rage,
   You Poet,
You Poetess,
    The world needs Poet Saints.