Poets
In cold, dim cells
Under the ground
Secretly we read in hollow voices
Poems written by dear ones who have
departed.
Then for the second, third and the
thousandth time
We revise some of Our Poems
Hidden in the caverns of memory.
We fix them up, dream that one day
We may uncover them to sunlight.
We yawn, wake up,
Put them back into old cases of the
ancestors,
Lock them up, and
Confused,
We go out to the street,
Putting on
The masks of servility,
Performing the roles of the fools of old,
Afraid that They might discover
We are poets!
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