For whom do writers write,
those lovers of words,
those divers in the reef?
In pursuit of incongruous pearls
they die; lives given
so that words might live.

At a time that gives little worth
to words, writers mine them
from the earth. Diamonds
that are themselves rough –
they carry, turn them
in their minds, before they ever
bear the glint of precious stone,
before they’re hewn to grace
a human bone.

If only fine words
weren’t so fine,
if only they weren’t
so hard to mine,
then diamonds and pearls
would be everyday pleasures
and only in the mind
held as treasures.