Still in control, still a renunciate, learned and wise,
In pact with the other two for this sortie, knowing the prize,
The one on the left a poet, whose muse was sheer silence,
But words were playing songs and being inaudible was just
It became poetry in motion as its wings flapped rhyming,
Deep in meditation of spinning verses it just kept flying.
The one on the right was such an ancient soul,
A king once, a leader, a beggar but a wizard at every role,
Fearless of death it flew this time a seeking bird,
But all the way during this flight it never uttered a word.
A beautiful triangle of understanding did they entertain,
As if holding invisible hands they flew in unison, dry in the