All around the world, br poems are talking among themselves br when the books are shut, br when the computers are switched off, br when old-fashioned poets put down br chewed pencils, sucked ballpens, br lips a little stained with the flavour br of ink that’s washable or permanent; br br poems talking among themselves br in that language that poems understand, br that poets seek to write; br poems murmuring, complaining, br sometimes shouting desperately, br br who are these people who br have dared to speak our language? What br is their right and reason? When br did they arise? Where br did they get their ideas? Why br do they even try? How br do they hope to improve on this? What br is a poet, anyway? br br The tumult of their languages, br the babel of upraised voices br speaking, though, with that unutterable br beauty of that sound which can really act, br can change the world of change, br can touch the heart for lifetimes, br melts a heart of stone, br brings tears to eyes needful of tears, br opens clouds to blue sky and to sunlight, br watches angels as they ascend and descend, br speaks of, speaks, br the unknown, formless, eternal, ever present – br br the tumult dies down; in the br silence and the stillness, br only the pure sound of sound itself; and br br in that sound the absolution: br forgive them, O Muse of Poetry: br they know not what they do.. br yet in their hearts, they know br what must be said. br br The pain, exquisite; br found worthy; loved.