Maybe it was the stars at night

that triggered my poetic flight.

Maybe it was the heat of fire

that made my soul aspire.

Maybe it was the cold wind from the north

that brought my dexterity forth.

Or a simple thought

was the reason I sought

my poetic self

Poems in the past I've only read few

English for me five years ago was new.

The question that I so desired to answer dwelled in me

What was so powerful, so pure about words that I could see?

Why poems? why words?

Why make symbols and shapes that were surd?

Epiphany

Like an expertly fabricated polyphony.

It was the meaning, the effort, the value

It was the trueness, the language, the power

That rendered the simplest mind

full of color and rhyme.

It was the vastness and clarity

that was gained by such rarity

It was the rhythm, the pace

the way the words flowed with grace

That I was able to comprehend

The splendor words could fend

The might language could harness

The power that thought could harvest.

Few poems I've read

A myriad I will write

For depicting the enigmas of my mind is my right

Therefore, I will not cease my voyage until I'm dead.