and if i find willing hearts of soils
to plant the seedlings of these thoughts
and yet i build no house...
i shall still smile to the sun
for the mansions built in the inks of lines...
for the new world and the index of change
for the men whose doors shall welcome my words
for the expressions to the muteness of these lines...
i shall be grateful still
for the rare hearts who give their soils for my seedlings...
ii
and if these stones are yet to sing me lights
lights for my limes or my limes that need lights
i shall not like the manner of some
hide my lines in the hubs of hubris
where there is darkness and hurting silence...
i shall shine the teeth of these lines for meaning
whet the budding pen over the surfaces of shaping stones
i shall not despise stepping stones for expressions...
for these writings are not greedy chasers for fame
they are first and only for expressions...
iii
and if i find coats for the nakedness of my lines
to keep from the bellows of colds of silence of decay
and yet i am naked...
i shall still be grateful
for i would have shone brightness for hope
and painted beauty for the face of dreams...
that these voices maybe heard here and there
that these words may travel into the years of generations...
for a line not read is wretched
and someday, these words shall clothe me, riches.