Words, poems, are never mortal, literary legacy beyond our bonds of earthliness, our limits. Poems are of ardent human tapestries of thought mystical. They never age, we do. Poets fancy delicate love of emotions, their romances passionately composed, lost loves mourned in their pen's flow of permanence as their muses wept - not even the angels could comfort them. God decreed him a poet, born in His divine will. He aspires with such celestial splendors of his verses lifted up - luminous as Roman candles. God's gifts to him generous,. rushing down the font fruitful, poet of the summer moon's immersing herself in the silvering eve tide. We are the fortunate bards reading his poetry - by the light of the Milky Way. This poem is dedicated to H.K., my benevolent friend and a very gifted poet.