Poems...

Strumming the strings of his lyre
By the silver stream,
A poet sat, forgotten by the world,
Dreaming, grieving for the future.
In his soul – a struggle, turmoil,
But on his face lies the seal
Of tireless striving,
Of inexplicable decline,
That people, God, cannot understand.
He is above us. So much above,
That we did not see him.
He is on par, in a deep niche,
With any of the cursed gods.
We cannot understand his sorrow,
The depth of his soul.
We denied it for too long,
We didn't understand much…
And he is alone in the forest.