where the writers are

I'm the unsung hero of a thousand lines,

Of unfinished syntax in the land of poesy,

Of unfinished business on grey Wall Street.


I'm the unheard-of voice that echoes,

Down the valleys of a thousand mountains,

In wintry's cold wilderness in the land of the wolf.


I am the falling tear blowing in the dry air,

A pause for breath as when Jacob halted on his thigh,

After that wrestling match with the heavenly angel.


Then there was that fallen star yclept Lucifer,

Once the lightbearer,now in a race to the end,

Unfinished business with earth's  inhabitants.


I'm the unfinished song that was started yesteryear,

But started fading like memory,fading like 

The  grey pages of a history book on that dusty shelf.


I'm the unwritten pages of history that were forbidden

To be written,never to be read,never on shelves,

For what is history,especially ancient history?


For scribes could only write what they were commanded,

For the pleasure of the monarch or the sultan;

In support of the rulers' ideas of the day.


Yes,I'm that unfinished poem of a thousand years,

Never to be written only to be felt,

A burning anguish like an angry river