Ah! To write a poem like another prays to God
Knowing well it never will or did concede a nod
And write it like the Taj Mahal, eternal temple,
Hoping some could rise from mourning marble
Through the verses’ incantation sung as anthems
The uttered names of ghosts could turn to golems
I could then believe in phantoms born from fancy
Poor Pygmalion cannot dare to mould and marry
I could learn to search for words the sounds of which
Lend a woman’s lips the whispers’ shape and twitch
But all of this would be to no avail and all in vain
She wouldn’t recite a serenade of sorcery so insane
From high above, beyond the seven rings of Heaven,
Sophia only sings the psalms of saintly snakes in Eden
I could try to fill an ode with rhymes and candour
She can see inside this line my crimes and murder
How could I dispel her doubts when I with her agree?
My verse of virtue cannot hide away my sinning spree
The beauty buried into sonnets sounds as Buddha’s tenet
And I, a man or mere manure, alive and vile, am its poet
I am Judas, doomed to soil my soul and shun from shame,
And Jesus, groomed to slay its flesh, was the Word of fame