by Peter Saint-Andre

I write no wondrous stories
Of mankind's vast potential;
I sculpt no human glories
Of what I deem essential.

Mine's a smaller, subtler art
Made of separate arts combined:
Music lets me voice my heart,
Poems let me sing my mind,

But a song's the wedded bliss
Of consummated pleasure
Where my soul and mind can kiss
In free melodic measure.

Peter Saint-Andre > Writings > Ancient Fire