“Why so sad, Poet?
Why don’t you cry?

What’s so bad, Poet?
How do you lie?

Why so dark, Poet?
Why hide from the light?

Why so weak, Poet?
Just stand up and fight.”

But the Poet moved not,
Not a foot, nor an inch.
His breath never faltered,
And his eyes never flinched.
He just sat in his silence,
As he let his mind wander,
And he answered as such,
Though he thought it as sonder:

“I am not sad,
I’m a poet, that’s it.

Nothing is bad,
Not even a bit.

I don’t hide from the light,
I just live in my shadow,

And there’s no reason to fight
With the quarrels so shallow.

I’ve no reason to live,
And none to die either,

So I write down my thoughts
And I hope that the readers

Can wait for the day
I choose one or the other

And look past my pain
Until my eyes lose their colour.”

And never again,
Was the Poet
Questioned.