My poetry flows like a small clear stream,
Gently meandering through the ground and rocks,
it may trickle just like in the dry seasons,
or gushing like a torrent after a heavy rain.
Sweet tasting water, refreshing…
A cool shady place to stop and rest for a tired traveller,
to reflect and contemplate,
and playfully watch me my changing shadows in the clear water.
My poetry, even in the darkest cold lonely nights,
it flows within me…
Keeping me company and happy.
My poetry, my dream….like a clear cool beautiful stream,
It is the last to leave me!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
It's like the game of hide and seek, in which the poet must continuously seek to find. With so much to offer, poetry is faithful and enduring.