Why I Write

Why I Write


People passing by in life,
Going their weary way,
May ask us over a drink,
Why I write everyday.


I thought a little while,
Said, with a sad smile:
Not for money or for pay,
Dost I write everyday.


Why I write, nay, nay,
My old, old friend,
I cannot really say.


I write, I write,
So that others may know,
The wrong from the right,
And the darkness from light.
So that they too just might
Be like a high-soaring kite,
Or a light-tower's light,
To guide the sore feet,
From the edge of a dyke
And that, old friend,
Is why I write.


He looked me in the eye,
And told me, with a sigh,
“I'll never understand,
How you and the others can,
But I don't believe
That I ever can write.”


Said I with a groan,
“Not to write is to moan.”


I write, I write,
So that I too can see,
The edge of the lee,
For it is the key,
To the sound of my soul.
And that, old bro,
Is why I write.