To the Poets

Essences of the peoples' beautiful selves,

Violins whose strings quiver

With long, soft, delicate harmonies-

Even when touched by the world's rough fingers,

Even when touched by Grief's cold fingers-

Think of the day when you, sleeping in your graves,

Shall be awakened by the thunder of your own voices

And by the strong, cool winds of your own music:

For in the fertile soil of the years

Your voices will blossom and become thunder,

Your music will become winds that purify and create.