Dear God, a poet: at least many poets say you br Are a poet too. br br They say it, because your fingertips make br The sunset beyond the mountains br Under the shade of the wide sky-leaf, br And deposit the hopes of a star On birds' eye-lids' br br And your melodies tune up on the cloud's organ br Prompt on the first day of the rainy season. br br I heard only this, because br I never have gone far from this city, br Not stayed beyond these dark lanes br And their shrouded surroundings br Denying their earnest call. br br So please tell me, God, br Did you ever enter into a burning hell of agony br For a single piece of poetry? br Did you ever pace back and forth upon br The same street again and again? br Did you ever lay awake br So you could shine a lady's face with suitable words. br br Then, tell me God, 'the poet', br Admit that you, too, are covered with your own blood, br You, too, are often mistaken br For just a remarkable metaphor.