Nobody knows the difficult life of a poet. Undercover, Aiyeko-ooto exhumes bodies of departed bards. The sum in quote: "I've built you a vessel, of papyrus stalk; rendered fit, To float, to the other side, where you'll reign, Weaved, covered, and flagged; to be discovered by royals, Only if you'll cry for loving attention and care"

Greatness deferred to the other side? AiyeKo-ooto distills 50 poems, joys, cries and anxieties, dripping off; quill of writers. Who must sing like musician, paint as artist and think like a philosopher, to be recognized in trade. Poets live 5 lives: First- Intrigues like yesterday, form a starting point; which do not last. Second -searching for lost muses, they just keep disappearing on you, why? Third -chasing beautiful myth, if I can write just a great poem, all will be well. Fourth - believing the winds that blow -love ones flatter; no matter what, publishers don't. Last -in the Ark, cry for attention -before you reach river bottom, where no one can save you.