The Spirit drips so golden from the Still.
Persistent as a beating heart.
Oh that my words would learn the part
To be as constant as my will
To write.
Some days I look upon a page
My mind as blank, with no desire
To raise a spark to light the fire
No phrases can I forage.
O dark night.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
The irony of a finely crafted work of art whose subject is a lack of inspiration. Nobly done, good sir.
Thanks, Neal. I don't think I've read any of your poems but I shall correct that omission today!