A Modest Bid (Poetry)

Another mewling baby boy
but what matter to a cold indifferent world?
Who paused awhile to guess
what rare potential lay inside
such fragile littleness?

The miracle too commonplace
the date long-faded into history
for who back then took note
or marvelled at the signs
of what he would
                        or wouldn’t
                                grow to be?

Just another lowly birth
no one special — not some prince
or rich man’s son
who might one day inherit
a substantial piece of
real estate — claiming some
God-given right or other to a patch
                                                of common Earth

but ordinary — like he knew
no fanfare-sounding trumpet blew
in unassuming ways he grew
to be a poet

How soon those hundred years have passed
all flesh will fail but words will last
                                        forever
pure thought survives — the page still fresh
with truth and humour’s steadfastness

an accidental art maybe
                                or
                                        immortality’s endeavour —
a modest bid to outlive
                                the body
affection lingers — words defy
though true-born poets fade
their sweetest flowers
                                never die.