The Poet…

As I stare on the rare Purple skies…
I try to remember when I did my first tries…
To say something without any voice…
To reveal something without using toys

The faint talent that I never thought I had…
Is now within me, growing like a small lad…
Though I know it’s hard to grasp what I say…
But I’m sure in every man there was a day

When he asked himself “how?”
For numbers couldn’t help him on that now…
Instead, he used a paper and a pen…
And just wrote away, waiting what will happen…

Only to see, that what he did was not scribbles…
But an art that was greater than any bibles…
It was like making a very expensive tea…
Yet, as time pass; it became his daily coffee…

A necessity in his daily life…
That not only brushes his strife…
But also allows him to see through a small window…
That up to now led him to his present tomorrow…