A bard is not a tippler

who drinks from the gourd of cacophonies.

He is a wit-tapper who collects sagacity

from the palm tree of solitude.

A bard is not a primogenitor

who woos diatribes at the snare of chances.

He is a seer who enchants grace

with his wand of artistry.

I’ve seen bards

whose muse were inflicted with draught

because they thought their reputation

had vaccinated them against woes.

I’ve seen bards

masturbate on the altar of humility

after smoking cigarettes of narcissism.

But are bards not the retina of the gods;

men who foresee divinations unimaginable?

Are bards not the nerve between the extraterrestrial and terrestrial;

astrologers who interact with luminaries unknown.

Why then can’t they decode

the algorithms of modesty?

why then do they propound fallacies

when it comes to the theses of arrogance ?

Why?