The poem that no one reads
Has been sitting here for hours,
Resting by the brook
With a few dried flowers.
The poem that no one reads
Has been sitting here, among
Songs that are never sung,
Even though the harmony of their notes
Would sound from lips’ loveliest throats
In manner of major and minor key,
Beautiful in a melody
Which everybody needs.
But placed before my eyes,
Eloquence sings and cries
From a previously hidden source:
The poem no one reads, of course.
