About myself shall never rhyme
Nor right have I to this aspire;
These words, by right, are others’ prime
For whom, and which, I them transpire.

In flesh, I come, unto this world,
The pen but marks the poet’s grace:
Its spark I use these faces mold,
Every detail put in place.

This city wears the skies’ disguise,
A point in space where dreams transfuse—
Oft like the sun, by which, I rise
And hence, forever, draw my muse.

O when the day shall come to pass
The last of stars exhausts its light;
These words unfold, and so—amass
Their memory shall cast the night.