How did the first poet come about
Which feathered friend
Unlatched his tongue
Pitching his wits to sky of views
To detect fire of flowers
To discern the link of above and below
To reflect on drift of words
To visit invisible nations
To conceal his creative nucleus.

Before the transformation
He must have been an ordinary man
With sleepy ears and shrouded eyes
Mundane like the face of afternoon
Whether by chance or divine decree
He was crowned by feathers of Simurgh
And given a plot of sky to wander
To sing of morning and of night
To sing of colors, of trees, of flight of birds
Of taste of wine, of berries, of hazelnut
To sing of wings of life
To relieve the pain of confinement
To reveal the crack of cage
To become paragon of originality
To settle in heaven of finesse
And brandish hell at the oppressor.

Don't scowl or frown-
be prepared to be let down
life is a Darwinian jungle
its keyword is: SURVIVAL!

His colloquy, vintage, rich and bold
Unveiling nuances, young and old
Subtleties dance, like fireflies at night
Whispered innuendos, a gentle, sweet delight

His flavor, a lingering caress
Savoring bliss, in each
tender address
In this sensory waltz, entwined
A delicate balance of taste and design

Where words become wine,
and wine becomes art
Relentless aftertaste, a deliberate
imprint on the heart

Grant me kindness
not success:
in this alone
I'll be fully blessed