As I open my book, grown old in its pages brown,
I can listen to that woman speak of her beautiful golden town...
and I listen too, to the music of my heart,
which cheered me up with the author's art!
But as I sit with my thoughts, all lined up
my pages so neat and my pen so young...
I can only feel deprived of the magic of words...
and realize with humility, I still don't have a writer's crown.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
good writing, I like it, thanks.