The poem never published.
The painting never bought.
The mold never used.
The knowledge never taught.

Still we find it written!
Still we see it hung!
Still we keep it cherished!
Still we here it sung!

Why the need to scribe?
Why paint for no return?
Why keep the unused casting?
Why does the soul so yearn?

The writing stays the moment.
The painting stays the dream.
The mold stays the morrow,
Where knowledge stays serene.