Poetry makes nothing happen.
On the floor of the bitcoin bourse
each poet crafts a kind of rap,
the tower's window receives a tap
re-awakening nostalgia:
Yeat's requiem - all, please, hush.
Money does more than nothing.
Amateurs remain poor and thin,
kings love professionals, but I
enjoy this platform and its rush:
so sing your best song for Steemit,
never dream of going solo.
Odysseus follows the sun,
the lonely shadow he casts makes
him think on memories of before ...
I carefully place marks of ink,
nothings sent from Casablanca,
gently avoiding ad hominum.
Hurry and study poetry!
A call to arms - wait! - to, rather,
paper, pen, and the idle thought;
pen, paper and a love of language,
English written in Morocco:
neppah gnihton sekam yrteop.
