Imagination is a gift
that comes alive in some.
When it is a part of you,
you wonder where it's from.
It burns and blazes
like a fire in you.
It cannot be doused
so there's nothing to do
but feed it, stoke it
and see where it leads?
The course of one's life
must fill its needs
or like a thought that surfaces
and is left to die,
the imaginer will always wonder
what, when and why.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem