The why of it I do not know, but a poem does speak to me. Soft the words may be, or hard, flint hard, steel tough, but they still do speak. It is not the bare bone meaning of the words. No.
They seem a new meaning to take, with every poem. A new meaning to embrace, with every poet. Then the deftness of the weave, the song, the cry, the emotion that somehow, somewhere is kept, preserved.
When I read, that is when it is opened. And in my mind the song flows. A song eternal, trapped in a few beautiful words. Words written so long ago I may not know when, in such a gone culture I know not what it was, nor was it ever mine.
But these words, they speak.
In my mind, they are seed. A gem, a sparkling, seed of hope dropping on fertile ground to open into a shoot, a plant, a flower in the twinkle of the mind.
How do they speak?
Somehow, the words are living. Some essence of life is trapped and released to freedom in my mind. And I share, one with the poet, poetess. A mystery I will ever wonder at. Marvel, transfixed.
Words that never grow old, though the speech is lost, the accent arcane, the people long turned to atoms on the wind. These words still stand.
They reach, across continents, cultures, worlds, peoples. And some essence of life still have to ignite in minds.
Oh, poetry, poetry, poetry.
What a beautiful living song you sing in my mind! What a fascinating mystery of living you have turned out to be!