Late,
One evening
They called me
To the Country of Poetry.
They said,
"Come quickly!
If not,
No tickets will remain."

The streets of the Country of Poetry
Have flowers on the pavements.
They smell
So distinctively.

Travellers pass along the streets.
They disappear,
Leaving something scribbled on a scrap of paper...
Some odd writings.

Some people read them
Others throw them away.
But they are inexhaustible
Those odd scribblings.

Travellers come
To the Country of Poetry.
And sometimes are unable to procure
A return ticket.

They drift along
The narrow streets
And pick up flowers
With unusual formations.

Tonight,
There's a free
Ticket available.
A one-way ticket.

I salute the ones who stay
In the Country of Poetry,
For it's the country of
The lonely, poor and peculiar.

Unfortunately,
It's not possible for you
To enter -
Unless you really are a poet.