Pocta Egarovi / Ode to Edgar

As a young boy,
he was always odd.
He did never grow up,
and also didn´t eat a lot.

So much he wanted to play with others,
but with him no children were allowed by their mothers.
Just one boy, watch him from afar,
but they have never been friends-
now neither they are.

Left at home, home alone,
Young boy studied things unknown.
His father, who died years ago,
left a big dark library behind,
behind the last doors in the hall.

Anxiously and carefully once the boy opened the door.
Still fearfully entered looking around,
shivering after every step´s sound.
discovering thousands and thousands of books,
more interested after every book in which he took a look.

Devouring book after book, forgeting time,
forgeting painfull school bell´s chime,
his wisdom reached an enormous size.
No one else was as wise as was he-
now still, aren´t we.

Desperate sitting, by the walls closed,
working on his creation,
sometimes, being lost-
he worked in the darkest nights,
unliable to his inner depraved fights,

the creepest creations were on their way,
let now me, the truth to say:

He wrote, as the times went,
And wrote Even more,
But now writes he Nevermore.
On the edge of Genius and Sanity,
His name,ladies and gentlemen:

Edgar Allan Poe.

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