If I Were a Poet

With wondrous visions, master architect,
you spread a paradise before my eyes:
a truth too plain for critics to dissect,
simplicity too pure to analyze.
Your words were fire, inciting me to dream,
and like a pauper costumed as a king,
I dined at tables set with rhymes that seemed
to flow with music only gods could sing.
And from the sky angelic trumpets op-
ened ears: “The poet speaks what sages know,”
And from within, awakening, a hope
sprang forth and fanned the faith that smoldered low.
Your gift transcends the instrument of art:
Not food for thought, but manna for the heart.