For writing all these poems, I suffer from
As waiting for some apt ideas to come,
My mind explores its inner galaxy.
Were this free verse, I’d feel no such constraint,
My mind allowed to rove in any way;
I would not need the patience of a saint
With no such regulations to obey.
Yet, even so, I would not change my style
Because this kind of versing is a game
More entertaining, fashioned to beguile,
Which is, for poetry, its foremost aim.
By craft and subtle art, we poets strive
To leave behind some wonders that survive.