The speed of written verse
May be measured by the heartbeat
Pulsing within the limits of it's begetter
Emotion, the innermore metronome,
Guiding the pen.
Each line may reflect a teardrop,
Or perhaps a smile
Each stanza kindling despair
Or perhaps harboring exuberance
Only time can tell
On Emotion's metamorphosis
Occupying the pulse
Until it's final cadence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem