Writers don’t die, they live eternal
Poets too are prophets, whose words are hefty
Three thousand years, and I’ll still be here
So open your ears, and take heed to what you hear
For till then, I have stopped writing.
On that day, there shall be shakings
And these words, flesh shall become, to dwell among you
These words, justice shall bring, to humankind
When swords, blood shall drain till tiredness
And I, that day shall remind you, that I said these words.
When you, at death stare, watching him die
And spears, rattles and arrows, to the earth bow
As they, the might of this pen salute
When the earth, an haven becomes, of peaceful rest
On that day, remembrance shall remind you, that I said these words.
When these things, in your minds happen, and thoughts sharpen
On that day; that three thousand years clock, and struck
You shall God see, on that day, tread upon these paths I tread
“Write us more,” you’ll cry, “For God spoke those words”
But the carcass of my Immortality shall say, “I have stopped writing.”