They Ran Out Of Ink

They were great poets;
They added color to the rain
Bow of lives,
Painters of reality with a pen
On paper sheets.
So sweet they wrote:
Philosophy about life,
The nimbus that would one
day depart,
The rains of salvation
That would one day fall
in the desert of our struggle,
a sunrise they were in our dawn;
clouds that added color to our
sunset sky.
Then came their twilight and
There was no hope for another
morning gleam.
Age took them by night,
their eyes could see no more,
their hands could write no more,
it was then that they realized that
their lives,
were stories too worth writing
but it was too late;
they'd ran out of ink.