MEN OF LETTERS

Ancient fires still burn brightly
in the night and in the souls
of those who listen closely
for the sound of stories told

by ancestors who spoke few words
but who with fingertips blood red
carved old truths on granite walls
to proclaim their holy thrones.

Give me now a simple table
in a corner so I can work
undisturbed, bent over paper
while transcribing angels’ whispers.

Blackest ink flows swiftly on
this rough grey canvas spilling
words to songs which go unsung
in this world of agony.

May sirens always call to those
who long to touch the hearts of all
by telling truths, exceeding grasps,
uncommon dreams of common men.