A poet needs

some time of his own

some kind of place

to call a home.

A poet needs

some love around

for letters to flourish

there should be a fertile ground.

A poet needs pain,

a poet needs the autumn rain,

but when the sun comes out

the word becomes a sprout.

And the sprout turns into a plant

we lay our children on this land.

But when you get to see the spring

we won’t be around.