Olympus Erato's children had never ceased to tell man the truth, everybody knows about false prophets but no one ever knew of a false poet.
Perhaps if the world stopped to be so stubbornly deaf would understand the words and open their eyes to a real Paradise around them, not just a utopian one that they can buy with gold.

The rasping voice of a quill on parchment
telling about a poem with rhythmic words,
child of Erato perhaps even a blessed one
inspired to write verses so many eons ago,
under the weak flickering flame of a candle
or under the fiery burning of inspiration sun,
the rasping voice will disturb the silence
as it gives man something for his soul.

Justitia is crying because man haven’t listen
the poets on a remotes corners of the world,
telling him that children are dying infirm
or being violence victims of his violent wars,
but man don’t learn from no soft spoken poets,
because tyrants have much more powerful voice,
just believing in today and just a tomorrow,
man seems now, that have no need for God.

Mount Olympus like a Babel Tower there,
from Zeus highs man will appear so small,
and yet capable to anger the sky’s powerful
when man provokes the hammer of Thor,
of Neptune's deep growling storming seas
or Cesar’s mighty quadrants of centurions,
poets will have the upper hand with quills
when battling pathetic little men with swords.

Shadows are growing from all Greeks ruins
that once was the crib of civilized world,
philosophers and learned men were together
to give man a direction and simples laws,
and the mighty divines of the Olympus
a full cornucopia of poets to man bestow,
but the quill’s rasping voice on parchment
is not heard by the greedy men, not anymore.