A poem is conceived with words
of different hues and texture.
Some jostle for space in the sketch,
betokening gloss and charm.
Some wait in their little boxes,
demanding they need to be earned.
After the words are coined,
arranged, shaped into a draft,
they are relegated to a folder
till their zeal and vanity cool off.
Then the refilled pen blends them,
quarrying recesses of the heart.
The hidden architect creates
another world, another horizon
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A poem conceived and born.Well done.