Poems are never written. They ooze, they drop,
Like tears, from saddest members of tribes or nations.
Poems are not made by those on top;
Only by those in exile, looking for revenge.
Poems are never written by the witty,
Only by those reclusive, broken, or sad.
Don’t trust the lightning poems of the verbose
Dashed off by seducers in the city,
Voluble, punning, ironic, glad.
Equality is impossible, the gulf
Between death and easy songs too large.
Poetry is the dew that never vanishes,
Gleaming in sorrow beneath the stars;
Poetry is not a prize for the wealthy,
But the sorrowful glory that is ours.