A poet is poet
Long ago a poet spoke of an orphan
An apple…
How
Why
When
Were question: “did you end up here? ”
He sought for, the tree
Could not find, not any
That was cause for a pen.
Now tree in the eye
The apples on ground
Many are, and ignored
Poet writes of ruthless
The mother to apples.
Are you poor, unable?
A poet is poet
Writes all, anything
Looks around for subject
Love and hate; fight and care
Cold as ice, and fire, to its burns.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Indeed a poet could write about anything, whatever captures the wordsmith's fancy. An insightful piece of poetry that pays tribute to the sublime creation - the brainchild of the poet, well articulated and nicely penned. Thanks for sharing Nassy.