[poetry] Freedom

Whence the poet doth read another' verses,
He laughed and saith: I don't mean discourses.

To put my sail on the distant sky and lie,
Must I be hampered with sadness and cry?

To see beautiful things only in comedy,
That is not a poet's real clarity.

See a dove flying free and be envy?
Such thing is a poet's tragic privy.

To be free from all the things we hate?
Truly, our foolishness has not been sated.

To look at the bountiful days and smile,
What people cannot reach to such short mile?

Freedom has always been there but you shove.
Bored to thine pining and sigh to the dove,

I lay mine self under the moonlight stream,
By her gentle rock, she sent me to dream.

Mine forehead doth her beauty cold lips kisseth,
A sign from her that I always be missed.

In deep slumber I became the Dreaming,
Thus lo, I am being and becoming.