It's rare to find a good poet
One who can dream dreams of death
Look it in the face
Spit in its eye
And live to tell us its secrets

Sometimes you may find a poet
Who can stand on a crowded street
Watching the rain run in rivulets
Down his face
And turn it into a waterfall

And then there are master poets
Who can look at the lives of living man
Take out his loom
Thread the spindle
And weave them into a thousand exquisite scenes