Long ago, the old masters
kept sitting on their desks
kept writing and writing
kept thinking and reading and spelling and bleeding
until Master Death came for them.
Came pulling the feather from their stiffened hands
hands, unlined and dry
for that's how many masters used to die.
Now here I sit, writing
thinking and reading and spelling and bleeding
I am no master, I'm far from it yet
there's a bit of a master in everyone's head
Through strangers' eyes, children's speeches
they're talking to us
Through books and through poems,
through songs that don't last
they're watching us pass
Even the beggar with tired, worn eyes
is gleaming from the inside with unspoken words
Truth in a world full of lies.