From words in ancient tongues that time forgot
the poets spun their lines in measured time.
They weaved their vibrant tapestries of thought
with verses trailing free or trimmed to rhyme.
Their cadences engaged the hearts and minds
of those who spoke the language of the day,
but none today can speak or hear their lines:
The winds of time have borne their words away.
Poetic lines could be inscribed in stone,
but if the living never hear them said,
there’s nothing left of them but heartless bone:
Without their breath, a poet’s words are dead.
Poetic colors that the blind can hear,
if never heard, grow lifeless, gray and sere.
Bronze trophy winner
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