IMMORTAL
Was he king or a bonded slave?
The beauty he sang still sings,
Vibrant as falling stars
In the path of radiant wings.
Does he sleep where the laurel grows?
Did he beg his cup and his bread?
He left the sign of his joy,
And he lives with the mighty dead.
Marked by the print of his feet,
The dust of this ancient floor
Glows, spun-flame in the dark,
What matters the name that he bore!