Were it not for a poets cup being small,
None of you would taste our wine,
Alas we fill and goblets fall,
Spill our hearts through ancient vine.
‘Tis not the wine of absent mind,
But the elixir of word-smith kind,
Of hearty matter,
Of earthly grind.
Be at the tavern, be with the divine,
There you’ll see us, there you’ll find.
And all will be revealed,
Refill and spill, until the end of time.
The drink is forbidden for us and we pour endless poetry.
Whilst you drink your hearts content and pasture with cattle.
The dignity is in holding yourself together, fort-like in any situation, head bowed in gratitude in humble recognition.
Leave the drop for the numb and in pain.
Connect through the well worn paths, travelling alone never amounted to anything but time wasting and frivolous ego entertainment.
In spite of being on the brethren’s paths, it is still you, alone in your affairs, accomplishing what others would not dare.