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Who cannot imitate

But then there are those who emulate

At times, to expand further the light

Of an original glow.

Knowing that to imitate the living

Is mockery

And to imitate the dead

Is robbery

There are those

Who are beings complete unto themselves

Whole, undaunted,-a source

As leaves of grass, as stars

As mountains, alike, alike, alike,

Yet unalike

Each is complete and contained

And as each unalike star shines

Each ray of light is forever gone

To leave way for a new ray

And a new ray, as from a fountain

Complete unto itself, full, flowing

So are some souls like stars

And their words, works and songs

Like strong, quick flashes of light

From a brilliant, erupting cone.

So where are your mountains

To match some men?

This man can rhyme the tick of time

The edge of pain, the what of sane

And comprehend the good in men, the bad in men

Can feel the hate of fight, the love of right

And the creep of blight at the speed of light

The pain of dawn, the gone of gone

The end of friend, the end of end

By math of trend

What grip to hold what he is told

How long to hold, how strong to hold

How much to hold of what is told.

And Know

The yield of rend; the break of bend

The scar of mend

I'm proud to say that I know it,

Here-in is a hell of a poet.

And lots of other things

And lots of other things.

"Of Bob Dylan" - Johnny Cash