The Wanderer of the Cinder's path

A trail of flames follows me;
a fire burns within, I Burn, I burn;
a trail of flames follows me.

In the path, I meet an old poet
preserved in his youngness,
his name is John and he said:

“Why such small words
and meaningless sentences,
Why when facing so lively beauty
in such plain and hideous words,
they made it be ?”

“No my young, No my young”,
He whispered to me, and even now
his words are more like the hum
derived from a flute, “Please,
Do not misuse the words
merely to state what is seen.
From this orange canary’s feather
I can evoke the eternal flaming Phoenix;
From this very pool of muddy water
I can see an ocean and mayhap
a sailor lost in his innumerable isles.
In a raven I see battles, wars and death;
some see memories, but I…But I…”

and then the old poet waved his arms
and grabbed the emptiness.

“I can only say: many loves I had
until today and by many names
I had called all of them…
It is unworthy to love and
not have more words than
those already fashioned to
portray your beloved. Why”,
he repeated miserable , “Why”.

The old poet was gone, vanished,
like all poets, he left with the twilight.
I had no opportunity to reply:

“No my liege, this very day,
to-day!  I received but a word in napkin
written with lipstick, to me, soon,
that a kiss, what more ? A gentle touch,
a dancing folly, a night of love,
and even,  believe so, a starry gaze.
The words are not wasted,
the melody was not gone,
as long I still love and,
love can not be undone.”