May have descended with insights to give,
Yet a rich life not allowed to live.
All pertinent messages couldn't impart,
Through time's spirals flourished his art.
Thirsty his spirit for hush of Parnassos,
Didn't despair in this world dross.
They're still guessing at the ice-berg beneath,
For millions of miles stretches his wreath.
Through bubbles of bird song, he's left a trace,
Though outlived by his Grecian vase.
Snatches of winged tunes, follow in his wake,
Ancient pottery fragments, part of a mosaic.
A cosmic minstrel has he now become?
To entire planets, wise lullabies hums?
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