I'm glad I'm not a sculptor.
A sculptor has it hard.
His stuff fills up the basement,
the attic, then the yard.
And likewise with the painters;
soon there'll be little room
as canvas piles on canvas
until the crack of doom.
I'd rather be a tunesmith
whose ouevre hasn't mass
enough to cast a shadow
or bend a blade of grass.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I did both and gave them up for tunes because of what you said.