Enough drama plays in the heads
of poets, they are bound to keep
a calm exterior to allow the rage
only on the inside as not to burn
the candlestick at both ends.
No wonder they have to abhor
violence and undue aggression
for there is always a civil war
already going on in those heads.
Those who fail to understand
call them placid or full of smoke,
and of no action but they don't
know that the smoke they see
is from the fire burning within.
There’s no need to go to war
when the mind is a battlefield
of vagarious thoughts and words
and the battalions are engaged
in that never-ending combat
with hand grenades and bombs
being lumped in every corner;
warheads are perpetually supplied,
arranged, stored, and dusted.
These poets don’t really march
because the bugle never stops
sounding off in their busy heads,
their steps and gaits do not fit
the tunes onlookers may hear.
When the poets call the people,
to rise up and fight for their right
it’s because a war foretold
does not consume the cripple
and long before the enemy gets
to the grounds of the city gates
the poets can very clearly hear
in the eerie silence before the storm
the parade steps of the marching ants,
stocking the barn against a famine.
They are the first to call for peace,
to remind of the evenings of songs
and dance, of food and drinks,
of entertainment and refreshments
because in their heads they live
with the trouble and the rumble
of never ever having a ceasefire.
They, whose dormant volcanoes
awaits the fiery day of thunder.