Yea, without knowing them, in my all ignorance,
I called myself a poet, not a small poet, but a great poet,
Asking them to write papers on
And collecting on me,
Praising for to be included in
As reviewers and critics.
But something pricked it my conscience, in seeing them,
The flowers blooming and fading into the woods,
On the pathways,
When none but I am going and marking
The scenic beauty,
None but I the looker, the admirer
And had I known their beauty, had I other men’s talents,
It would, would have been great for me.
The men whom I think would not be any use to me
Help me otherwise, in different ways,
Those whom think I would be my use
Help me not,
And thinking it over the ways,
The flowers scattering over the ways come to the mind
And forget I, what it in my name,
Am I really a great poet,
Are there no poets like me?
I wonder, wonder at seeing the poems of the latent poets appearing anew,
How do they write in,
Outwitting the so-called, supposed to be of propped seniors and superiors,
Mocking their ego and self-flattery,
Which they feel it in being famed poets,
But I have the wild blooms blooming and scattering over
The example to follow
As for to seek and draw from.
I am what I am now, I cannot say it myself,
What I have really written,
Written to pride over
And show it to the world,
May be it had humility been a flower, I would have drawn it,
Had somebody’s innocence been my guide
To guide my soul.
The Village Girl-

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