Some writer spends whole life
jotting down in journals
filing up diaries
expanding self-made library
getting-old looking for publisher
some are kept writing notes
on fastfood napkins
on scratch of newspapers
stuck on brown envelopes
rottened by time
meals for book worms
haven for sleepy thunder dust storm
some writers are dying
some are dead and gone
not around to enjoy reading
his own stories
editing his own mistakes
reflecting genuinity of his piece
in unison with the current critics
dead writers are not dead
they are dying for their royalty rights
and benefits
we believe that are intended for them
instead
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
but will they have the time to spend it in eternity? ...........................