A poet's world

He sits in his world of delight

Thinks of all he wants to tell

His canvas, a plain page

His pen, his paintbrush

And when his pen paints colours of ink

He calls himself a painter,

The world calls him a poet

He paints every word with care

Like precious beads on string

Like jasmine flowers in thread

Sometimes his tears turn to ink

Sometimes his smiles to words

Some days he writes and cries

Some days he cries and writes...

Sometimes he writes in pain

Sometimes in toil

Sometimes with content

Sometimes with love

He writes of love and hatred

And of war the world suffers

He writes of kids licking ice-creams

And of families on holidays

He shares his world with the world

He shares his canvas with people

He paints his world

He paints his thoughts

He writes of what he sees

Of what he thinks and feels,

He shares the world’s joy

He shares the world’s grief

Not of diamonds and pearls he speaks

But of blooming flowers in spring

Yes, of dying and falling he speaks

But of rising again he writes...