The Poetry in me had all but died;
Palsied hands, a stymied mind.
But underground rivers still wet the tongue,
The husk gone coarse, savannah dry.
Awakened from my ancestral tomb,
I take to She a suited groom.
And out of that ancestral gloom
I take ahold the weaver's loom.
The fruits of labour are often sour
When out of season, don't devour;
Don't sleep on a bed of wilting roses,
But clothe yourself in their fragrant poses.