A poem by Aeschylus (c. 525 – c. 456 Before Christ )


No,

the poet does not

live in a beautiful

world, a perfect

world,

does not always

see the bright side

Nay,

too often it is

the dark she sees,

Not rainbows

and stars,

but what lies

beneath the smile,

The danger hidden in

the warm embrace,

and the hunger

that resonates

in the deep, dark caverns of

the belly

And you wonder

why her art

has woven itself

into beautiful forms

befitting more

an angel than a

demon

It is so she

will not be afraid

of the emptiness

so she can

convince herself

that there is

really more to

life than

this:

The poet is really

useless

cannot do anything more

than write

cannot wish for anything more

than life

What life she has

is embedded in

her poetry

and what poetry she has

is only snatched from life

who once upon a time

has stolen her

from herself

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