What shall I speak?

What shall I speak when I speak of her?
The red red rose is taken.
Daisies are all chosen.
For lilacs, someone has spoken.

What shall I write when I write about her?
All the books have been written.
All romances have been smitten.
Hitherto hearts have pounded and broken.

What shall I sing when I sing about her?
Every note and scales are played.
All pitches high and low attained.
Words have rhymed and all is explained.

Shall I address the moon and the stars?
Describe her in their context?
Make her my work of art,
And muse like thousands rest?

Shall I scream or dance or paint her pictures?
Damn the artists have left-
No stones unturned nor neglected!
If I do it then is it not theft?

Another day, another poet, another poem for her!
Nothing to say that is not yet said,
Or to make what is not yet made.
One by one another wall of verses I create.

A Poet I must say my bit for the matter at hand-
That all the joy that comes and also the pain,
Every day that comes with warmth, cold or rain,
It seems to worth more than it ought to,
When it comes to me along with you.

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