Laces of time lie unbroken upon sacred ground.
Never trampled on, always thrown about without a care.
Forging into deep, black nights, brought on by literary plights,
hesitantly authors write duos of many words.
Fighting silentlessly back and forth, trying to be the first to write the world's greatest books.
Mesmerized by the talent of others, left alone, to come up with words of their own.
Jostling everything, just to have some peace and quiet, totaling -nothing, writing pages of something.
Talent sitting far away from the population, growing impatient with the world.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem