The Angels Were Generous

The Bard

He grasps the words: of his skill he is sure.
He breathes in their dryness, brittle and stale,
Turning it back as he plays with the Power,
Exhaling their beauty, quiet and frail.

The Word is the rush and not will he slow it.
The phrases as they ripple and roll off his tongue
Are blindingly bright and well does he know it,
How he touches us all with the Song he has sung.

The dreams and emotions are his to command.
He keeps it concealed and never will show it,
But the Power hidden deep is the badge of this man.
He’s the one with the Words, the one we call Poet.