A poetry only for poets

The sky is not pervious for a man; but it sometimes bacons us,

Though it’ll never allow us to stay there or let us walk on its surface,

It’ll never let us till it for cultivation or give us any habitable shelter.

Yet, we stare at its changing color and is and its blue vastness.

With our goggled eyes we like to hear the stories about kings,

Though we’ll never be able to live with them on the same plane.

We prefer to discuss on the spicy life of a political sphinx,

Though we know that he may be insensitive or may be humane.

For the feelings of momentary mysteriousness or to enjoy a transient satiety

The seers of different of life prefer to spend their day and night.

Though they know well that it’ll never make them mighty,

And some momentary exhilaration will never make them erudite.

Poetry plays the unique role of a king as well as the role of the sky;

Without its mysterious appeal the life would be insipid and dry.