This peculiar poem discovered me while I was writing a contribution for an encyclopedia while exploring the islands around Iceland. It appeared in my travel bag, along with several death threats and a one-way ticket back to my hometown, but I appreciated the effort of whoever it was that put this together. I gave the one-way ticket to a man trapped in a heavily regulated, first-world country and sold the rights to the death threat to a greeting card company, but I kept the poem for myself. Whoever wrote it, aside from the fact I suspect they are vegetarian, will most likely remain anonymous until the sun cools.
A poem for the Artists:
When rights are secured and respect is given,
when your colors are flown above every roof,
Will you at last touch the sign of heaven,
or struggle beneath it, panting, driven,
And envy its grandeur; secure, aloof?
When every child chants your heartsong,
when every sailor charts your star,
Will that make your weak soul headstrong,
and bold enough to stand high up, afar?
When all the masses come together, when they in unison work in cheer,
trying to chip a relief, a story, to please your mountain, cold and sheer,
will then your icy heart be melted, will then your soul of stone be free?
No. No words of recognition reach you,
no acceptance fills the aching cave that was your heart.
You may sit enthroned with honor, mad praises piled for your art,
But ever cold your heart grows harder, deafer too, your straining ears,
until gray be your mantel, gray your colors, gray the skies you paint with tears-
Wait! There is not one rose below heaven, whose seed was not sown by the Sky,
There is not one beautiful treasure, that was not crafted by hands from on high,
Empty, you declare yourself sinless, alone, you decree yourself free!
But can you sing the song of ancients, can you make your blind soul see?
What good is a rainbow to the sightless, what good are your colors when you are gray,
Can you write the true art, true song, sing the words that never fade?
At the door you stand uncertain, only within may you see the Source,
leave your luggage, heavy, crushing, stop your heartsong; it's made you hoarse.
Knock but once, and you'll be answered, ask but once, and you'll be free,
Enter the home of all your music; find the source of eternity.
A poem for the Artists:
When rights are secured and respect is given,
when your colors are flown above every roof,
Will you at last touch the sign of heaven,
or struggle beneath it, panting, driven,
And envy its grandeur; secure, aloof?
When every child chants your heartsong,
when every sailor charts your star,
Will that make your weak soul headstrong,
and bold enough to stand high up, afar?
When all the masses come together, when they in unison work in cheer,
trying to chip a relief, a story, to please your mountain, cold and sheer,
will then your icy heart be melted, will then your soul of stone be free?
No. No words of recognition reach you,
no acceptance fills the aching cave that was your heart.
You may sit enthroned with honor, mad praises piled for your art,
But ever cold your heart grows harder, deafer too, your straining ears,
until gray be your mantel, gray your colors, gray the skies you paint with tears-
Wait! There is not one rose below heaven, whose seed was not sown by the Sky,
There is not one beautiful treasure, that was not crafted by hands from on high,
Empty, you declare yourself sinless, alone, you decree yourself free!
But can you sing the song of ancients, can you make your blind soul see?
What good is a rainbow to the sightless, what good are your colors when you are gray,
Can you write the true art, true song, sing the words that never fade?
At the door you stand uncertain, only within may you see the Source,
leave your luggage, heavy, crushing, stop your heartsong; it's made you hoarse.
Knock but once, and you'll be answered, ask but once, and you'll be free,
Enter the home of all your music; find the source of eternity.
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