Homer

In the mist‑laden hills of ancient Ionia,
Where olive groves whisper beneath a sapphire sky,
A blind bard named Homer wanders, staff in hand,
His voice a thunder that rolls across the ages.

He sings of Achilles’ wrath, of Hector’s noble fall,
Of Troy’s burning towers and the scent of war‑kissed earth,
Each line a golden thread woven into the tapestry
Of mankind’s endless quest for honour and fame.

Then, with a softer lute, he charts Odysseus’ long return,
Through sirens’ wail, Cyclops’ glare, and Poseidon’s grudging tide,
The hero’s cunning heart, a lantern in the storm,
Guides him home to Ithaca’s humble hearth and faithful Penelope.

His words, though carved in stone, breathe like living air,
Passed from lip to lip, from scroll to codex,
They stir the soul of scholars, poets, and dreamers alike,
A timeless echo that refuses to fade.

So let us raise a humble cup to Homer, the sightless sage,
Whose imagination forged the very shape of Western tale,
Whose verses, rich with heroism and humanity,
Remain the beacon that still lights our literary sea.