An Indian miniature painted by Mughal, circa 1610 The poet in the garden, on the grass did not write into his leather book. His apple blossoms did not get a second look. He did not drink from his crystal glass.
The dogwood tree, the gold tooled leather flask, ignored with the vellum at his feet. Although his garden and his world were sweet writing sweetness was not his task.
The skies turned indigo, day dimmed to dusk as he polished unsaid word and phrase. Therefore beside him unlit, his heart ablaze for those who cannot speak for whom he must.