For Time shall cease with these deft strokes of pen
And in proud ink your memory live on;
All future eyes who read shall pause again,
And marvel too, these lines—my gold baton;
Thus may a poet’s hand out wrestle Time,
Or in rhymed writ, his spoil of grace forbid—
May poet’s wit ascend to heights sublime,
And with sweet words, fair beauty’s foe be rid.
Then this shall be your shrine forevermore;
Your shield against the ravages of age;
Your proof—the grandest charge a bard e’re bore;
Pure beauty’s truth, not just a poet’s rage.
Be this the hand that made the world stand still,
And your sweet grace outlast, by poet’s will.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.