For the poets who ply their pen for peace

Gentle poet, purveyor of peace,
what sorrows slip unnoticed
by crass crowds; what thirst
thrives unquenched within your soul?
What dreams lie quietly but
will not die? Your page is dressed
with tranquil metaphor, with grandeur
of the bards of old,
while I, mere mortal with a love of word
drink of your wine as warrior
takes to sword, like seedling set
where soon a flower grows,
or a single drop of dew
seeks out its rose.