Here it is:
A poem is for eternity, a whispering voice in the void
That finds its own way timelessly through the silence.
A sculpting of thought that transcends barriers of
Culture, language and prejudice, its shape and form
Are ever changing and yet ever the same, new and fresh
But welcomed into the heart as a safe familiar friend.
The shepherd on a Galilee hill, the nomad in a sandy
Waste, the traveller on a Roman road, the elderly man
In a New England wood - Can they have known how their
Crafting of elusive language into ideas and feelings
Would wend its way down through the ages and settle
Into its place on a shelf in a dark and silent library, to be
Found at last by a frightened boy who would turn the
Brittle dusty pages, blinking back his tears and deciding
That tonight he will not kill himself? The poet takes
His hand and comforts him. There is more to do, more to
Understand, more to be - more to read next Saturday.
Nobody living can ever stop me
As I go walking my freedom highway.
Nobody living can make me turn back:
This land was made for you and me. (Woody Guthrie)