Benediction

When my voice sprouts from the honest fields
And has no covers of untrue shields;
When it bears the melodies polite
That shed the ire from the roots right.

When my words arise from the mind fearless
And form the unostentatious, true phrase
That care none for applause
Of the ones close or across.

When my thoughts are moulded by gradual reason
That have no mantle of egotism.
When they are sacred adorned with peace
Like a dew on the moist cool breeze.

When my touch desires nothing
And without envy does it cling.
When it is capable to heal
And turn into good my ill.

Only then, my Lord, I'll worship my poems to thee.