Have you ever heard the sound
The mason's chisel to the ground?
Or the footman in the quarry down below?
Have you heard the straight picks ringing
And the workers, heard them singing
As they toil in the heat, the sun’s warm glow?
Does the poet chisel stone
To find the soul of his refrain?
And the pickax be his pen
Hewing paradise from pain?
Does he torment in the mine
To quell the darkness of the night
And try to find the proper time
To let his fruitfulness take flight?
I can hear him fairly droning
Clanking. Clanking.
Hewing. Honing.
Working level.
Working gavel.
Sorting gold
And sifting gravel.
Softly singing his own name .
Birthing the soul of his refrain.
Does he torment in the mind
To make his spark divined and right
And mark his will so some might find
And know the bourgeon of his might.
I am he. I mark my line
But just a chiseling at a time.
Shaping what might make you see
What is the paradise in me.
Have you ever heard the sound
The mason's chisel to the ground?
Or the footman in the quarry down below?
Have you heard the straight picks ringing
And the workers , heard them singing
As they toil in the heat, the sun’s warm glow?
Have you heard me?
Did you know?
I’m the poet.
Birth the soul.
