I knew a poet once.

He was the top of a tall mountain
of all the best words.

Fighting.

His words were a war
against social injustice
of all times.

His face was beautiful
with scars and lines
that remembered
every battle.

There was Issa, and a bowl of soup.
I remember the fly that buzzed
in the windshield
and tears behind sunglasses.

Why do poets set
like suns?