A great story or epic poem,
Flows like mountain water, cold and clear.
While the fall cometh only in increments,
Absence of color, signals it is here.
Cool precision of words laid to rest,
Capturing moments before they retire.
Thickets of dense woods shut me in,
Inspiration from the words building my fire.
Whistling winds moan, through half-naked trees,
Rattles of spent leaving, serving to validate.
Force of the words, comfort and soothing,
Or yet, generate an eternal debate.
Life so arduous, at times my admonition,
Immersing my soul in prose, at time my position.
The woods shut me in, to sull and to pout,
Prose releases my soul, and lets me out.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem